


Trial and Error

by Kedreeva



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Destiel - Freeform, Fallen!Castiel, Human!Castiel - Freeform, M/M, wing!kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-04-30
Packaged: 2017-12-05 13:50:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kedreeva/pseuds/Kedreeva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Castiel manages to avoid being drawn back behind Heaven's locked gates to stay with Dean... but at what price?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sablewick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sablewick/gifts).



            It was, of course, never as easy as closing a gate and being done with it. That wasn't their lot in life, had never been their lot in life. So it was hardly a surprise to either Sam or Dean when Kevin called to tell them that the gates of Hell could not be closed without also closing the gates of Heaven. That both had to close at the same time, so that the balance would not be overturned.

            They had wanted to, at first. Dean had plunged headlong into the new set of trials, eager to rid the world of all the crazy outside influences that had messed it up so badly. No more demons, no more angels. Humans would be free to exercise their will, make their own choices, decide their own fates. It wasn't perfect, but it was a start, and with Sam on the mend from the second trial and Dean flying through the first, it had even seemed like a good idea.

            Until Sam wondered aloud what would happen to Castiel.

            "He's still an angel," he reminded Dean. "Won't the spell cast him back, too?"

            That had given them pause for a few days. Together they had weighed their options and in the end the answer was obvious, if not salient. They couldn't afford to leave the gates open, even if it meant they would never see their friend again. Sam had made a show of being absorbed in one of the Letters' books when Castiel turned up outside the building, calling for Dean. They needed time alone.

            Castiel had agreed that the gates needed to be closed. When Sam had finally joined them outside, Castiel had greeted him with a half-hearted smile, barely flashed, before he turned his full attention back to Dean. "This is why I Fell, Dean," he'd told him softly. "Your people deserve freedom from my family as surely as they deserve freedom from the forces of Hell."

            Dean had scowled, but accepted it. There wasn't a choice; if he wanted to close the gates, Cas would go away with the others, disappear from their lives forever.

            No matter how fine he acted, Sam knew that Dean was not okay. That didn't mean they would stop, it didn't mean that Dean shied away from the second task. It meant that they finished their final trials together, and found themselves standing across from one another in a field in Wyoming. Blood and bones littered the ground between them, arranged in a pattern. Dean couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from the pale, softly-striped feathers placed at the points of the sigils.

            Their donator stood at Dean's side, drinking in the sight of him, expressionless. He didn't have to be there for it to work, but Sam had asked. Sam had asked because Dean wouldn't. Because Dean ­ _couldn't_.

            "Hey Cas?" Dean asked softly, still not looking. "We never asked about the human souls. When we close the gate, what happens to them? Where will they go?" He couldn't ask the question he wanted to ask- _will I see you again, someday_?

            Castiel looked down, considering the question. "I suppose they will go into a cycle of rebirth. Your problems with spirits will probably resolve."

            Dean nodded, like maybe he had expected that. "And the people behind the gates already?" He didn't have to mention their parents- it was scrawled all over his face.

            "They will probably remain there," Castiel surmised. "Are you stalling, Dean?"

            "Yes," he admitted, shifting uncomfortably. With a sigh, he pulled his lighter from his pocket, dragged his gaze up to meet Sam's eyes. "You first."

            Sam glanced between them, but he swallowed his desire to pick at them, to make them say goodbye. They hadn't. Dean wouldn't, and Castiel didn't know how. It was a mess, but there wasn't room for Sam to interfere, not anymore. So he just raised the paper in his hands, full of words scratched in pen by Kevin- the incantation that would start this. He began to read aloud.

            It wasn't a particularly long incantation and at the end, Dean knelt and lit the first of the angel feathers on fire. It blazed white and blue for a split second before the patterns beneath it caught flame as well, spreading from sigil to sigil. The holy oil mingled with the blood, the burning stench of it scorching through the air around them. Castiel shifted uncomfortably, feeling the first stirrings of the call home.

            When Dean rose, he gave Castiel a final glance before unfolding his own piece of paper. He swallowed thickly, gaze dropping down to the words that would send Castiel away from him forever. He couldn't seem to unwire his jaw, couldn't make his throat unclench.

            "You have to, Dean," Castiel told him, so soft it was almost lost in the open air of the field. "It will be okay."

            Dean's face screwed up slightly, like he wanted to yell at Castiel, because it wasn't okay, because it would never ­ _be_ okay. But he just sighed, because he refused to let their last conversation be an argument. He wouldn't remember Cas like that. He didn't want Cas to remember him like that, either.

            As Dean began to read, the pull in Castiel's gut became stronger. He could feel his Grace reacting to the spell, feel the way it clawed at his insides, trying to take him away from here. He would go, he knew, but he would cling to this realm as long as possible. He would be the last through the gates, staying at Dean's side until the very last moment, because Dean deserved that much. After everything they had been through, all the hardships, Castiel knew his worst regret would be that moment; the moment he truly left Dean on his own.

            The end of the incantation drew near and the sensation tearing at Castiel's Grace was nearly unbearable. He wavered where he stood, the motion breaking Dean's concentration for a split second as he glanced to the angel. Cas shook off the attention with a nod of encouragement, and Dean resumed reading; Castiel didn't miss the way his body remained turned slightly more toward him, though.

            Upon the last word of the spell, Castiel stumbled under the weight of the pain. Light began to glow from the sigils, replacing the fire, climbing skyward as they wove together to form the binding magic that would seal the gates. A hoarse shout escaped Castiel as he clutched at his chest, and a moment later Dean was on his knees beside him. He could hear Dean calling his name, but it was nearly drowned out by the ringing in his ears, the screaming inside of him as the spell began to tear him from inside his vessel.

            Then Dean's hands were upon him and the relief that flooded his system closed his throat, constricting his chest in a helpless sob. For a moment he couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but allow the feeling of Dean's presence to wash through him before the darkness claimed him entirely.

 

* * *

 

 

            The light from the sigils faded as the spell came to an end. Dean knelt beside Castiel's body, curled forward, eyes closed. Sam stood across the casting area, watching, knowing that there was nothing he could do to help, no solace he could offer now. Castiel was gone, and Dean would have to deal with that loss the same as Dean had dealt with burying all of their friends and family in the past. It never got any easier. He never got better at dealing.

            The most Sam could do for him was to give him space and a little time, and then remind him gently that they couldn't stay in the field forever. That they still had to pick up Kevin, if nothing else, and finally get him home to his mother. There would be no more tablet translations for him, no more hiding, no more running. Sam and Dean would probably play clean up crew with whatever monsters were left, but it would never again be demons or hellhounds. Their heels would never be nipped after by angels demanding they play into the claws of their fates.

            They were free.

            Watching Dean curl his fingers into the cloth of Castiel's trench coat, Sam knew that their being free meant that they were also _alone_.

            Sam tipped his head as he watched Dean's hands rise and fall on Castiel's chest, almost as if Castiel was...

            "Dean, he- he's ­ _breathing_ ," Sam exclaimed, bewildered.          

            Dean's attention focused, snapping up to Castiel's face, hope lighting his eyes. Though Castiel didn't stir, when Dean splayed his hands across his chest, he could feel him breathing, just like Sam said. He looked to his brother, expression mirroring Sam's own confusion. "Did it not work?" Dean croaked, throat still tight.

            Shrugging helplessly, Sam crossed the sigils to reach Dean's side, stooping to kneel alongside Castiel. "Something happened," he said as he felt at Castiel's throat for a pulse. It was strong and steady. He met Dean's gaze, mind racing. "Uh- maybe it..." He shook his head, unable to come up with an explanation.

            Dean shook his head and looked back to Castiel. He drew back slightly when a thought struck him. "Jimmy?" he proposed to Sam. "If Cas got called home..."

            Sam shrugged again, this time with his hands, and looked back down. "Maybe...? I thought he was..." he said, trailing off. Jimmy was supposed to be gone, dead, moved on, but it would explain why the body was alive after Cas left. His eyebrows rose slightly. "If it is, we should get him back to the bunker."

            "If it is, we should get him home," Dean insisted.

            "Dean, his home... We can't take him there," Sam reminded him. He knew why Dean didn't want to take Castiel to the bunker, but he also knew that, short of abandoning Jimmy at a truck stop, it was their only choice. "They think he's dead. It was a disaster last time."

            Though Dean scowled, he eventually agreed. They got Jimmy's body shifted into the back of the Impala. Sam didn't bother asking if Dean wanted him to drive, he just silently slipped the keys from Dean's nerveless fingers. He didn't once mention the way Dean spent the entire ride home twisted halfway around in the passenger seat, watching the man in the backseat with a haunted look in his eyes.

            At the threshold of the bunker's entrance, Dean paused, Jimmy's body draped across his arms, trench coat dangling awkwardly. Partway down the hall, Sam hesitated, glancing back. Dean was just standing there, looking at the doorframe like it was an alien concept, as if he had never had to walk through a door before. Sam backtracked until he was standing in front of Dean.

            Though it took Sam a moment, he realized why Dean had paused.

            As long as he didn't cross the threshold, there was still a chance it was Castiel in his arms. That the sigils and warding symbols and runes bled into the walls of the entire bunker would prevent him from crossing with the angel. The moment he crossed, there was no going back. It would be Jimmy, and Castiel would be gone, and Dean wasn't capable of facing that right now.

            "You can't stand there forever, Dean," Sam told him, but gently.

            Dean managed not to say _I can try_ , and instead took a deep breath before forcing himself to step over the threshold. Sam tried to pretend the sight of his brother's heart breaking didn't suck, but he couldn't lie to himself. He just silently followed Dean to one of the empty rooms, watched him deposit Jimmy on the bed. Jimmy didn't stir at all, and both boys wondered how long it would be before he woke. If he woke.

           "I don't know about you, but I'm starving," Dean said gruffly, turning resolutely away from the bed, pushing past Sam.

            With pursed lips, Sam spared a final glance to the man on the bed before turning to follow his brother down to the kitchen.

           

* * *

 

 

            Darkness surrounded Castiel, utterly unbroken, silent, pressing in all around him. He could feel something wrapped around him, something warm and not completely unfamiliar despite that he could make no guess as to what it was. He was glad for it, whatever it was; he could hear the howling, feel the echoes of scratching, clawing madness and he knew whatever enveloped him was his only protection.

            That knowledge only made it worse when the first crack appeared anyway.

            The first claw to hook into him was excruciating. He thought maybe he screamed, but he couldn't hear anything, couldn't see anything. Everything that he was thrashed against the pulling sensation as the intruding presence attempted to drag him away with it. He couldn't be sure where it would take him, but he knew it was somewhere he didn't want to be. Somewhere he couldn't leave. So he fought, and with relief he found that he did not fight alone. The presence which held him became stronger, infused him with the strength to force out the attacker.

            After that, Castiel began to build. He wasn't sure what material he used, only knew that he was pressing something into the cracks, something strong, something sealed by the friendly presence at his side. It burned where he smoothed the material around, but he knew it was necessary. Every time the tearing sensation clamored at his gut, he knew he had to keep building, keep burning, keep patching and layering until the blockade was so thick he couldn't hear the howling anymore. He couldn't feel the thing that ripped and tore at him anymore.

            Castiel continued on until he couldn't feel anything, not even the presence that had protected him through the attack. Until he was safe- alone, but safe.

            Only then did Castiel open his eyes.     

 

* * *

 

 

            Sam knocked gently upon the door frame, just enough to alert Dean to his presence. Dean stirred in his chair, lifted his head from his arms where they lay crossed over the back of it so that he could look over his shoulder to his brother. Holding up one of the two mugs in his hands, Sam offered a consolatory smile. Darkness underscored Dean's eyes, and he held out a hopeful hand for the proffered drink. When he looked inside the mug, it wasn't coffee or alcohol, and so he just clasped it in both hands, leeching warmth from it as he turned back to the bed.

            "No progress?" Sam wondered aloud, taking a sip of his cocoa.

            "He's not screaming, currently," Dean answered, voice dragged down to gravel with fatigue.

            Taking a breath, Sam turned his attention to the unconscious man sprawled across the small bed. They had tried to rouse him for the better part of two days now, to no avail. Shortly after they had deposited him in the bed  the first night and gone to fetch food for themselves, they heard him shouting. Abandoning their dinner, they raced upstairs to assure Jimmy that everything was all right, only to find him in the throes of some sort of hellish nightmare neither of them could end. They'd shaken him, they'd dumped water on him, they'd shouted back until they were hoarse. In the end, he just... stopped.

            Briefly.

            They had stayed for a while, sharing silent conversations, letting their fears bounce around the room as they watched Jimmy sleep. At least, they hoped he was sleeping and not just... well, they hoped he was sleeping. It would be easier for all of them.

            Of course, nothing for the Winchesters was ever easy. After an hour of sitting tensely by, observing, Sam had finally suggested Dean go pick up Kevin and return him home. Though he knew Dean wanted to stay, he also knew there was no point in both of them sitting by idly. He was certain that Dean needed a break from the visual reminder of his loss.

            Dean, however, was of the opinion that Sam could take his chick-flick-moment therapy crap and pick up Kevin himself, which was how Dean ended up sitting alone in the semi-darkness for almost two days. When Sam found him exactly where he had left him, he'd shuffled Dean out of the room and into his own bed, agreeing multiple times to take over watching Jimmy sleep soundly.

            The problem was that Jimmy did not sleep soundly. Shortly after Dean had finally fallen asleep, the screaming began anew. Dean had trudged the distance between the rooms, scowling, to find Sam sitting on the edge of the bed looking harried. When he caught Dean staring at him, he held up his hands in surrender.

            "Every few hours," Dean told him groggily. "He's been doing this crap every few hours and there's nothing you can do." _I couldn't save him, either_.

            So they'd sat together on the floor the rest of the night, Dean leaning into Sam's shoulder until he fell asleep again. Sam had stayed up, watching Jimmy and thinking about what they were going to do about this. They would have to take him to a hospital soon, if for no other reason than because they couldn't hydrate him properly for long here. How they were going to explain this to anyone was beyond him, but - though he would never tell Dean he'd thought it - maybe they wouldn't have to. Maybe they could just drop him off in a far-away town, and let the system deal with him.

            "I suppose that's something," Sam answered finally, taking another sip of his cocoa. He screwed up his courage and took a breath. "You know, Dean... we can't keep him here forever. Not if he stays like this."

            "I know," Dean replied.

            "I looked up a few hospitals that have... you know, good psychological care wards," Sam tested carefully. He hadn't wanted to bring it up to Dean. They both remembered all too starkly their time - as well as Castiel's time - spent in mental hospitals. It never seemed to end well.

            Dean scowled at his cocoa. "We're not dropping Cas off at another loony bin."

            _It's not Cas_ was on the tip of Sam's tongue when he noticed they were being watched. "Dean," he said, trying to direct Dean's attention to their charge.

            "Sam, I said we're not-"

            "He's awake."

 

* * *

 

 

            Dean's attention snapped back to the bed, his eyes meeting stark blue. His chest constricted painfully, and though he opened his mouth to say something, nothing came out. His ears were ringing, his blood pounding, and Castiel - Jimmy, he reminded himself - had done nothing but simply open his eyes and look at the brothers, confusion settling into his features.

            "It's okay, Jimmy," Sam said from behind Dean, and the world sped back to normal. "You're safe for now, and we're going to help get you on your feet."

            Jimmy looked between the two of them, his confusion only seeming to deepen.

            "Cas said you were... gone," Dean told him, choosing carefully. He didn't want to freak Jimmy out by telling him he was supposed to be dead. "What do you remember?"

            With a slight head tilt, Jimmy squinted at them. "I should not be here."

            Both Dean and Sam froze at the familiar tone, at the low, gravel-filled voice. "... Cas?" Dean asked, eyes narrowing.

            "Yes, Dean," Castiel replied. The moment the words were out of his lips, Dean was out of his chair, backing up a pace, like Castiel might turn on them.

            "No, we closed- you- There's no way you-"

            "How are you here?" Sam asked warily, over the sound of Dean's inability to form a coherent sentence.

            "I don't know," Castiel told them, brow furrowed, eyes not focused on anything. They recognized the gesture; he was attempting contact beyond their senses. "As I said, I should not be here."

            "Well, you are," Dean pointed out gruffly, anger thick in his tone. He didn't want to _blame_ Castiel, but he'd spent the last two and a half days thinking he was lost forever, listening to him scream, unable to do anything, and now Castiel was just there again? "We closed that gate, Cas. We sent everyone home from the party early, so what are you still doing here?"

            "Did it not work?" Sam asked, voice heavy with concern. The trials had been difficult enough the first time through. He wasn't sure they would survive round two, not without the pure hope they'd had this time, that it would succeed. Not while knowing their first attempt had failed so spectacularly.

            "I don't... I don't feel my brothers anywhere on Earth. I cannot hear them." Castiel tipped his head as if it would make Dean's fondly-named 'angel radio' any clearer. It only caused him to scrunch his face in frustration. "I cannot hear anything."

            The boys stared at him and he stared back, all of them trying to determine what had happened, how Castiel had escaped being whipped back home with the rest of the Host. It was only when Castiel looked around himself that he seemed to realize where he was. His eyes widened considerably and he was on his feet a moment later.

            "We are at the Men of Letters' home base," he stated, like it meant something.

            "Yeah, Cas, you were _gone_ , you were supposed to be gone," Dean reminded him slowly, trying to wrap his head around the situation. The thought of Cas being lost to him still ached, worse when he said it aloud, even though Castiel was right in front of him. Even though Castiel seemed okay, Dean wasn't. "We thought we were dealing with Jimmy, not..." Dean motioned to all of Castiel, swallowing hard.

            "Not an angel?" Castiel prompted, raising his hands as if to indicate their surroundings. His point was lost on Dean, but not on Sam.

            "We brought you here because we thought you were human," Sam said aloud for Dean's benefit. Dean's face paled slightly as he caught the train of thought. "Cas, this entire place is angel proof, we made sure of it. It's _everything_ proof, humans only. Dean shouldn't have been able to bring you in unless..."

            "Unless I were human," Castiel finished for him, his eyes meeting Dean's at last.


	2. Chapter 2

            "Angels don't just _turn human_ , Cas," Dean snapped crossly. He wasn't mad at Castiel, but he had poor aim when it came to his aggression. "Don't you have to rip out your Grace, or something?"

            Castiel's answer was an intense stare as his mind whirled over possible explanations. He remembered the pain, the tearing sensation, the way the spell had clawed and shrieked at him to return home. Then there was a rush of calm, of light and comfort and relief, and then... and then there was the bedroom inside the bunker, with Sam and Dean addressing him as Jimmy Novak, asking questions Castiel didn't have the answers to.

            Closing his eyes, he reached inside of himself, to where he should have been able to draw power. To where his Grace should have been. In it's place there was a dead space, hard and dark and cold. Lacking. Lifeless. A dismayed noise escaped his throat as he stumbled back, falling to sit on the bed when his calves encountered the side. One hand clutched at his chest as he tried to find breath.

            "I- I don't understand," Castiel choked, throat tight with panic. "I didn't-" His blue eyes dragged up to meet Dean's. He hadn't ripped out his Grace. He'd been caught in the spell as surely as any of his brothers, he knew he had, but he couldn't feel it. He wasn't empty, but he couldn't _feel_ it.

            "Hey," Sam murmured from the doorway, standing up straighter but not coming into the room. "We'll figure it out, Cas. Whatever happened, we'll figure it out, okay?"

            _You don't understand!_ Castiel wanted to shout, but he could do nothing except stare at Dean, chest tight. "I can't feel my Grace," he managed to say at last, even though he knew they couldn't understand. There was no one left that could possibly understand, and in that moment Castiel was struck by how stranded he'd become, how utterly _alone_ he really was.

            Dean took a step closer, shuddered to a stop before he could take another. "At all?" he asked. "It's gone, and you didn't tear it out?"

            Castiel looked like he was going to be ill, but he tried to collect himself enough to focus for Dean. Again, he pressed upon where his Grace ought to have been, got the same wash of darkness and dread as the first time. "Not gone," he mumbled thickly. "Dead."

            Neither brother had an answer for that, and so the room fell to silence. After a moment Dean took another step, then another, until his knee was against the bedside, until he could sit with his shoulder just barely brushing Castiel's. He didn't take his eyes off the other man, but Cas closed his eyes when Dean sat. He looked so much like he was awaiting a sentence that Dean's heart gave a little twist.

            Taking a deep breath, Dean looked down to the floor, then over to Sam. "Sam's right, Cas. We'll find a way to fix this. We'll have you mojoed-up and back home in no time." He and Sam traded half-hearted smiles before Dean looked back to Castiel, who shifted uncomfortably.

            When Castiel didn't answer, Dean clapped a hand to his back in comfort. At the contact, Castiel shot up straight where he sat, back rigid and eyes wide and Dean froze. His face reflected the same shock as Castiel's and he stroked his hand down the outside of the trench coat before he could stop himself.

            "Dean-" Castiel uttered, higher than usual as Dean snapped his hand back to himself.

            "Uh, sorry," Dean managed, leaning away to get a better look at Castiel's back, brows knitting. "Is that- Are those-" He choked on the words. "Wings?"

            Shifting slightly away from Dean as well, Castiel suddenly looked very uncomfortable. "They seem to have taken corporeal form," he stated, caught somewhere between dread and hope. If he still had wings, perhaps there was a chance Dean and Sam were correct. Perhaps they could fix this after all. He looked over to Dean, prepared to mention the thought, only to find Dean staring at him with wide eyes.

            "You can't... hide them?" Sam asked with a vague hand motion. He wasn't sure what Castiel normally did with his wings, or what would be needed to keep them from being seen. He was also _certain_ that Castiel hadn't had wings when they brought him into the bunker; Dean would have felt them. Sam would have felt them, in all the thrashing Castiel had done while out. A glance shared with Dean told him his brother was thinking the same thing.

            For a moment Castiel's eyes unfocused and the boys waited patiently, concern painted on both their faces. Finally Castiel shook his head, face scrunching. "No, I cannot 'hide them,' as you say. It is a natural function of my Grace to keep them phased. Or at least... it was."

            "You didn't notice they were out?" Sam pressed, curious. Now that he knew they were there, he could see the bulge in Castiel's trench coat along his back. He wasn't sure how they had missed it. "You didn't feel them?"

            "I always feel them," Castiel replied, looking over with slightly squinted eyes. The trench coat seemed to inflate once as Castiel experimentally flexed his wings against the fabric and frowned. "This is... uncomfortable. I cannot phase them."

            Dean pulled back a little. "You mean they're stuck?" he asked gruffly. "You're saying you're stuck with wings _and_ no mojo?"

            "Yes, Dean," Castiel answered, a little bit of his usual patient exasperation returning to his tone. "That is precisely what I am saying."

            For a moment they all sort of stared- at each other, into space, at their hands. Anything to avoid having to talk while they processed the information. Finally Dean blew out a breath and rubbed a hand over his face, down his jaw, and pushed up from the bed. When he looked to Sam, he got raised, questioning eyebrows in response.

            "Okay, then," Dean said, like a conclusion. "This is what we got, so this is what we're going to deal with. Sammy, you think any of your books out there might have something to say about this?"

            Sam shrugged with one hand. "They don't even mention angels, not in anything I've read through so far." At Dean's frown, Sammy rolled his eyes. "But, I'll look again. Should we call Kevin?"

            "Kevin?" Dean echoed.

            "The prophet?" Sam said, like it should make perfect sense. "Maybe there's something on those tablets. Something about... how to stay out once the gates are closed. Exceptions."

            "I think it was pretty freaking clear, Sam. When the gates close, everyone goes home," Dean reminded him. "All the demons, all the angels."

            "Yeah, but-" He gestured toward Castiel, who looked placidly back, absorbing the conversation. "Look, I'm concerned for Cas too, but right now we gotta wonder if anything else slipped through the cracks. If anything's gonna come looking for us for closing those doors."

            "He's right," Castiel interjected, rising to stand beside Dean.

            "I know he's right," Dean growled before either of them could say anything more. "Fine. We'll call Kevin. And Garth, see if he's heard of anything demonic or angelic since the closing. If there's other _exceptions_ out there," he said, looking to Sam, "someone will have seen 'em."

            Sam ran his eyes over Dean and then Castiel, then tipped his mug at them. "I'll get started then."

           When he was gone, Dean turned to look at Castiel, who fixed him with a guilty look. Dean let himself have one deep, cleansing breath before he spoke. "You hungry?"

            Castiel's face scrunched a little as he considered the question. When he met Dean's gaze, he gave a little shrug. When he had been possessing this body as a vessel, he had been able to maintain it through his Grace. Normal human urges such as hunger and fatigue hadn't _troubled_ him, exactly, although he thought he could recognize them if he felt them. He wasn't sure what he felt right now; there were too many things to feel to pick out just one.

            Dean's eye roll was somewhat comforting. "You gotta be hungry," he said reasonably. "You been out three days. C'mon, I'll make us some grub, then give you a tour."

            "And then we can help Sam?" Castiel asked. He didn't say it with any sort of malice or concern, but he saw the flicker of disappointment in Dean's eyes. He let it go, because he knew Dean did not like to research.

            "Yeah, Cas," Dean agreed, turning to head after his brother. "Then we can help Sam."

            Castiel tipped his head curiously at his tone, but he followed Dean from the room without comment.

 

* * *

 

 

            At the edge of the kitchen, Castiel fidgeted, fiddling with the edge of his trench coat's sleeve. The entire room smelled of something delicious, of many delicious somethings if he was being honest, and he was a mess inside about it. On the one hand, he found himself thoroughly enjoying the cacophony of scents, but on the other hand, his stomach was tight with panic. He couldn't access the wealth of information from all of Heaven that would have let him immediately identify all the scents along with their origins and histories; he couldn't even pick out one in particular from the mash. Everything was duller and richer and fuller and lacking, all at the same time, and it was confusing him horribly.

            "Dean," he finally said, blurting the word like a plea. He wasn't sure what he wanted Dean to do, exactly, but he felt relieved when Dean looked over from the stove, his spatula held aloft of the bubbling pancakes.

            When Castiel made no further inquiry, Dean attended the pancakes just long enough to flip them and dock the heat before he turned to face Castiel. "You okay?"

            Castiel pulled his wings into his body extra tight, feeling very small suddenly under the weight of Dean's concern. "Yes, sorry." He grasped for a reason to have interrupted Dean, settling upon the first that came to mind. "Do you require assistance?"

            Raising an eyebrow, Dean looked back to the breakfast. It was nearly finished. He crossed his arms, leaned his hip against the steel counter, and fixed Castiel with a solid stare. "You want to help?" He didn't mean to sound like he didn't believe him.

            There was nothing he could do that Dean wasn't already doing, Castiel knew that, but standing still was not helping his nerves. He felt trapped, sealed into this body, the skin itching at the fabric encasing him, his senses muted in some ways, brighter in others. With nothing else to do, his attention was fraying, trying to encompass everything at once.

            "I- I think I need help," he replied weakly, brows furrowing. "How do you tolerate all of this?"

            "All of what?" Dean asked.

            "Everything this body is telling me," Castiel responded. He met Dean's eyes and frowned. "My Grace always filtered out my vessel's human senses unless I focused on them. Without it... there are too many scents, not enough sounds, and all of the colors are... different." He didn't want to admit that his inability to hear Dean's heartbeat was setting him on edge.

            "Woah, okay," Dean said, unfolding his arms to hold up his hands in surrender before Castiel could continue. He already looked like he was going to panic.

            He wasn't quite sure what solution he could offer; everything he smelled and saw and heard was natural to him. Never before had he thought about how different angel senses must be. He'd known they could be better, had seen Castiel smell and hear things far beyond human senses, but he'd never really spent time considering it, because it should never have been a problem. It shouldn't have ever mattered, because Castiel was an angel.

            Except that he wasn't, or at least he was human enough that it mattered now.

            "It'll get better," he reassured Castiel, despite that he had no idea if it would or not. "You learn to tune out the stuff you don't need. Like uh... like angel radio. You didn't listen to everyone on it all the time, right?"

            "I did not," Castiel agreed, turning the information over in his head.

            "Okay then," Dean said with a nod. "So try that."

            As Dean turned his attention back to their food before it burned, Castiel closed his eyes. He concentrated on the senses he had left, on figuring out what he could ignore and what he wanted to pay attention to. He was so absorbed in his new task that he jumped when Dean bumped a plate of food into his chest. His eyes snapped open and he found Dean smiling just a little at him.

            "C'mon, let's get a plate to Sammy," Dean suggested. "You can play sort-the-senses while you eat."

            Castiel wrapped his fingers around the edge of the warm plate, looking down at the short stack of pancakes, edged by bacon and topped with a square of butter. The knife and fork clinked as Dean let go, relinquishing the breakfast to Castiel's hands. He watched Dean pick up the third plate from the counter before nodding for Castiel to precede him to the library where Sam would be waiting.

 

* * *

            By the time the two arrived with breakfast, Sam had discovered that Garth hadn't heard a peep from any of the hunters that reported to him about angels or demons. Kevin hadn't answered the phone, but truthfully Sam was a little relieved for that, because he deserved a break from all of this. He wasn't going to get one, none of them were, but he did deserve one. Sam had left a message and would try again later.

            When Dean set a plate full pancakes in front of him, Sam had set aside the books he'd spread over the entire table, if only to save them from the syrup. He watched in silence as Dean showed Castiel how to hold his fork so he could use the knife to cut, and told him that the bacon could be picked up by hand instead. Sam rolled his eyes when Dean tried to tell him that pouring syrup on the pancakes was just a precursor to mopping up syrup from the plate. They learned that Castiel was left-handed, had a bit of a sweet-tooth, and that he thoroughly enjoyed the taste of bacon.

            "This meat has a very strong scent," he informed them in a serious tone, holding a piece of bacon between two fingers to examine it. Sam smiled, swirling a square of pancake through the last bits of syrup on his plate.

            "Just eat it, Cas," Dean said, but he was smiling as well.

            Sam enjoyed that Dean was so proud of his cooking, and Sam thought that he had every right to be. He seemed to have a natural talent for it, once given the time and opportunity. He hoped that Dean would never stop watching in anticipation as someone tried his cooking; it was endearing.

            Castiel looked between the two of them, as if considering their matching smiles. Then he took a bite from the strip in his hand and set the rest of it back on the plate. He let his gaze wander over the books Sam had selected from the shelves before looking up again. Sam was watching him expectantly.

            "It's not much," Sam offered in apology. "You guys were... pretty absent from recent human history."

            "Yes," Castiel agreed, squinting at some of the nearby pages. Mostly they involved demons, rather than angels. "You suspect finding a loophole for demons may allow us to find the loophole for angels."

            "That's what I'm hoping," Sam agreed, pushing aside his own empty plate. "It's not very solid, though. We don't know if what happened was the spell's fault, or your fault, or some outside influence. Unfortunately we just locked away the only people who might have actually known."

            He didn't want to say out loud that they might _not_ find a solution to this, but he could see by the shadow of fear that swept through Castiel's eyes that he may as well have. Whether anyone said it aloud or not, Sam could see that Castiel knew he might be stuck like this. That maybe, despite their best efforts, there would be no going back. Ever.

            Determined not to let that be the case, Sam reached across the table, picked up one of the books from in front of Castiel, and settled back to start reading again.


	3. Chapter 3

            Dean had been right; it was already getting easier to filter the sensations pouring into his consciousness. He found that the human attention span was not broad or firm- if he focused upon one sensation, the rest seemed almost to fade into the background. Consuming the majority of his attention was the human sensation of touch. It was so suppressed when this body had been only a vessel that Castiel had hardly ever noticed unless he was injured.

            His true form did not have the same sensation, not even remotely close to the way humans had it. His true form was light and thought and power, but it was not corporeal. His blade, so slender and compact for his human form, twined with his Grace when it manifested, infused with power, but it had no physical form either. When he fought, it was an extension of himself, of his thoughts, moving on an intention before he even validated what he wanted it to do. But he never touched it.

            Here, he could run his fingertips over the smooth surface of the dresser and feel the wood grain cling to the ridges of his fingerprints. When he sat on the edge of the bed, he could feel the springs give below him, feel the threads of the sheets as he rubbed his hand over them. After breakfast, Dean had chased him out of the library, insisting he shower and change. Castiel had spent almost an hour standing under the spray, letting it cascade over his skin in rivulets. The way the water felt pattering against his wings was very nearly divine.

            Dean had eventually come to fetch him, knocking on the bathroom door to ask if he had slipped and fallen. Though droplets clung to his lashes, dripped into his eyes, he opened them. At some point the water had turned cold, and he was shivering, though he hadn't noticed it. A smile crawled onto his lips because he _hadn't_ noticed something for the first time. He called back to Dean that he was fine, and shut the water off. When he emerged, he found that Dean had left a change of clothes for him and made off with his suit and trench coat.

            The rest of the afternoon had been spent mired in books and handwriting. Castiel found himself rubbing pages between thumb and finger, admiring the textures of different paper makes, of the bindings of the books, of the covers. They smelled different, as well, some of them very, very old, some of them only a little old. He didn't touch the hunter's journal Dean had been keeping; it perhaps had the most about angels, but he already knew it would have nothing to help them.

            Castiel did not see the small smile that graced Dean's lips as he watched him enjoying the feel of a particularly thick, rough piece of parchment. He didn't see because his eyes were closed, just barely, all of his attention focused on the almost cloth-like threads which bound the particles of parchment into a sheet. He liked this sort of paper best, wondered briefly why not all of the paper was made like this. It gobbled up the ink that was laid to it, infusing it completely, unfading as it became a part of the sheet. Castiel liked it, liked the bond.

            "Hey," Sam said suddenly, sitting up and looking more closely at the book that had been splayed across his lap. "Hey, I think I found something."

            Dean dragged his gaze away from Castiel and to his brother instead, brows raised. Castiel glanced up, his concentration broken. Guilt needled gently at him, because he had lost track of reading anything over the pleasure of the parchment between his fingers. He did not mention it, nor did the brothers.

            When Sam looked up and saw them staring expectantly, he dropped his eyes back to the book, tracing the lines over with his index finger. "Okay, it says here that a demon can... that certain objects can contain a demon's essence and render it immune to exorcism." He glanced up with a little frown. "Uh, briefly, it says. But that would be enough, wouldn't it?"

            "Enough for what?" Dean asked.

            "Well, look at it this way," Sam said, setting the book on the table and placing his hands on it. "If Castiel's Grace found a container, maybe it could hide out long enough for the spell to end. I mean, it does end, right?"

            They all looked between one another, because that was a very excellent question. None of them had thought to ask if the spell was one-time-only, or if it would forever call back escapees should something happen. Castiel shrugged when both of them settled on looking to him. "I have never closed the gates of Heaven before."

            Dean scrubbed a hand over his face. "Okay," he said. "So we got a magic lockbox theory, and a whole new set of problems where we don't even know if we can send you back if we fix you up? Awesome."

            "More than we had," Sam told him, looking to Castiel as if Cas might have a better suggestion. He didn't, and so Sam sat back with a scowl, returning to the search.

            Before he turned his own attention back to the parchment in his hands, Castiel glanced to Dean. There was guilt there, scrawled on his features, and a sadness that Castiel didn't like to see. He didn't mention it and neither did Dean. Instead, they both turned back to their books.

            It was hours later that Dean finally announced that if he had to sit in that chair for one more minute he was going to kill himself, which Castiel did not find funny or truthful. When he said so, Dean told him it was just an expression, though Castiel could not determine of what. When Dean had disappeared in the direction of the kitchen, Sam didn't give more than a flicker of his attention to his brother. Castiel wanted to ask if he could go along, but the silence of the library was oppressive and heavy, and so he just pressed his lips together and returned to his own book.

            Dean brought them dinner a while later, cheeseburgers on clean white plates with a pile of baked fries for each of them. Sam smiled when Dean set down a bowl of fruit in front of him as well, before shuffling back to his own table. Castiel plucked a strawberry from the bowl before Sam could touch any of it, examining the bright red fruit with wide eyes. Red was the color that had changed the most for Castiel, brighter and more vibrant than he had ever noticed.

            "Uh, Cas?" Dean questioned, staring at him with his burger held squished in both hands. Juice dripped onto the plate below his burger.

            Castiel looked over, drawn out of his examination, blue eyes bright. "Yes, Dean?"

            "Do you two need a room?" Dean joked, with a little, lopsided smile.

            Brow furrowing, Castiel tilted his head. "I believe we are in a room," he informed Dean.

            With an eye roll, Dean rotated his grasp on his burger and took a bite. Castiel did not miss the little huff of laughter, although he didn't see what was amusing. Instead of asking, he took a bite out of the fruit. It was sweet and tart at the same time, soft and grainy with seeds. He savored it, eyes fluttering closed, his tongue rolling the meat of the strawberry up against the roof of his mouth. He could get used to human foods, if they were all so full of wonderful flavors.

            So absorbed in the sensation was he, that he did not notice the way Dean stared at him. He did not see Dean shift in his chair, or the way Dean licked his lips in a way that had nothing to do with the cheeseburger in his hands.

            If Sam did, if he ticked his gaze over his brother's face as Dean watched Castiel eat, he didn't mention it. He just smiled and returned to work.

 

* * *

 

 

            Dean enjoyed the rest of that first night. He might have focused better on reading the books on his table if Castiel hadn't been so absorbed in rasping his fingers over every single page in every single book, many times over in some cases. It was as though he were reveling in every new sensation now, instead of being on the verge of panic. The sense of urgency Dean had felt that morning was dissipating; if Castiel could relax, if he felt no intensely pressing need to be returned to normal, then Dean felt he could slow down as well.

            It was well into the dark hours of the night when Dean felt his eyelids drooping, sleep edging in around his consciousness. Half a cup of coffee sat in a mug nearby, but it was a bitter batch and Dean had let Sam have the rest of the creamer. They hadn't let Castiel try any of the coffee. Sam had reasoned that he hadn't had caffeine yet, and they didn't know how exactly it would affect him. That didn't stop Castiel from poking his nose near both of their cups, entranced by the rich, heady scent. Regardless of how it tasted, Dean had to admit that coffee always smelled good. He enjoyed seeing Castiel really smell it for the first time.

            With a thump, Dean closed the tomb in his lap and dumped it back onto the pile. Sam glanced over, hearing the slight difference in his movement's tone, and raised an eyebrow in question. "I'm gonna hit the hay," Dean announced.

            "You should go with him," Sam suggested to Castiel as Dean was getting to his feet. He didn't miss the fumbling bolt of awkwardness that shot through his brother at the words, causing him to bang his knee on the underside of the low table. Sam had to fight to keep the smirk off his face. "So Dean can get you something to sleep in."

            Castiel looked down to his clothing, the worn jeans and shirt Dean had given him after his shower. The shirt should have been large on him, was large on Dean, but it was stretched a little tightly due to his wings. "I cannot sleep in these garments?" he wondered, looking back up at the brothers.

            "No, Cas, you can't sleep in clothes," Dean said, then scowled at Sam for the not-well-contained snort of laughter. He quickly amended the statement. "You can't sleep in _those_ clothes. Those are street clothes."

            "We did not go onto any streets, Dean," Castiel said reasonably, as if that should absolve him of the need to change.

            Dean held up one hand like an argument, but whatever he wanted to say died before passing his lips. "Just- get your ass out of the chair and let's go."

            Together they retrieved a pair of shorts from Dean's room with the assurance that Castiel could still use the soft, black shirt he currently wore. When Castiel tried to question it, Dean had asked him which one of them had been human longer. Castiel had scowled, but let the question pass as the end of the discussion about what he would or would not be wearing to bed. That didn't stop him from thinking that humans had a lot of rules that were very strange.

            With a decidedly nervous energy about him, Dean had led Castiel back to the room where they had started the day. The covers were still rumpled from where he'd lain on them for the past few days. He looked to Dean after setting the folded new clothing on the end of the bed. Worry was painted thick on Dean's features, and Castiel tipped his head just a little.

            Dean didn't know what to say, exactly, he just knew that he didn't want to leave Castiel there alone. The pained shouts, the screams for help, were still ringing around the room in Dean's mind, making him feel helpless. Though he wanted nothing more than to crawl into his own bed in his own room, he didn't want to abandon Castiel to whatever had held him captive. He wasn't sure what would happen if he had to listen to that again, see him hurting, knowing he was completely incapable of saving him.

            "Cas, are you..." His jaw closed almost of its own accord. "Are you gonna be okay in here?"

            "Yes, Dean," Castiel assured him. "I do not believe anything in this room can harm me."

            That wasn't quite what Dean meant, nor did he think it was true, exactly. Whatever was inside of Castiel's head, whatever had hunted him through his unconscious state last time, Dean couldn't be sure it was gone. "Yeah, but- okay." He scrubbed a hand over his mouth, and then waved it ambiguously in Castiel's direction, an invitation to carry on. Whatever had been after Castiel before, there was nothing Dean could do about it now. He'd be just down the hall if something happened. "See you in the morning."

            "Good night," Castiel bid him, turning his attention to the clothing he'd been given.

            Dean watched him for a moment longer before shaking his head and leaving Castiel to his own devices for the night.

 

* * *

 

 

            Dean's sleep was delayed one more time when Sam found him in his room to say goodnight. Despite his exhaustion, he was glad to see his brother round the edge of the door frame, offer him the sort of smile that said he knew the score. He knew the sort of toll this had so far taken upon Dean, and had guessed - the same as Dean had - that this was not close to over. That nothing for them was ever so easy.

            "Kevin just called back," Sam said when Dean caught sight of him. He pursed his lips at Dean's questioning look. "He said the tablet was pretty clear; everyone goes home. For good."

            "Then what the hell?" Dean asked.

            "I don't know," Sam said, with a little shrug.

            "No, seriously- what the hell?" Dean repeated, frustrated.

            "I don't know, Dean," Sam bit out. "It's not like..." He trailed off, because all of this sort of _had_ come with an instruction manual. "This wasn't exactly in the instruction manual," he amended. "He said he'd look again, if we bring the tablet back to him."

            Dean tipped his head back, his eyes sliding closed. They'd called the only people they had left. The prophet of the Lord had nothing to offer them. The vast library of the Men of Letters had yielded no results yet, not even with the addition of all of Bobby's books. This was the point in the job when they would ask for help. When Sam would fall asleep, exhausted, in the next hotel bed over, and Dean would tip his head back, eyes to the heavens. When Castiel's name would fall from his lips in a prayer, because they were out of their league again. Because they needed him.

            Except this time, it was Castiel that needed them.

            It was Castiel in the next room over, but out of prayer's reach.

            "Okay," Dean told him, leaning back against the headboard of his bed with a thump. "Then we take it to him tomorrow."

            "Dean..." Sam chastised softly. "I just got back, and do we really want to cart Cas around on his second day? He doesn't even have clothes to pack."

            Though Dean scowled, Sam was right. There was no reason to send Sam out immediately, and Castiel was not exactly travel ready. He was barely functioning-ready if Dean was being honest. All of this came on the heels of everything it had taken to close the gates. A day or two of adjusting and rest wouldn't hurt them. Although he didn't like it, he nodded his agreement.

            "You're right," he admitted. "I'm sorry, Sammy. I just-"

            "It's okay," Sam interrupted. His jaw set when he smiled. "It's been a long day for everyone. We'll just- we'll take a couple days here, keep reading, and then we'll hit the road. Okay?"

            "Yeah, okay," Dean grunted.

            Sam gave him another smile, this one touched with sympathy. "Good night, Dean."

            Then he was gone, and Dean scrubbed his hands over his face before reaching over to the lamp at his bedside. The alarm read 2am in little block numbers as he clicked off the light and burrowed under the covers, the memory foam beneath him welcoming him home at last.

 

* * *

 

 

            Castiel's hoarse, panicked shout dragged Dean from a sound, dreamless sleep. He had his knife out from under his pillow in a heartbeat, before he was even more than groggily aware of what was going on, before he saw the figure standing raggedly in his doorway. "Cas?" he questioned blearily. Sleep dragged heavily at his consciousness, beckoning him to return. "Cas, what's wrong?"

            "Dean," Cas breathed, like a revelation, and _that_ awoke Dean more than anything.

            "Yeah," he agreed, confused. "What's with the racket?"

            "You..." His voice cracked as he staggered one step further into the room, his wings fluttering out a little, stretching the fabric of the shirt which contained them. Dean set the knife on the bedside stand before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. "You _remember_ me."

            Dean's brows furrowed. "Of course I _remember_ you," Dean told him, confused. "I just saw you-" he glanced to the clock, "Dammit, Cas, it's five in the morning." His tone conveyed exactly how ridiculous five in the morning really was.

            "You didn't," Castiel murmured, and he sounded so small, so bewildered, that Dean instantly felt bad for snapping at him.

            In the doorway behind Castiel, Sam appeared before Dean could respond. The brothers shared a look which confirmed to each that the other was okay before Sam turned his attention to Castiel, who was staring at him with wide blue eyes. "What happened?"

            "You're alive!" Castiel exclaimed shifting a little to include Sam in the conversation. His attention snapped back to Dean, as if he could find an explanation there.

            "Yes, Cas. I'm alive," Sam said, giving Dean a similarly confused look. Dean glared back at both of them because he didn't have any more answers and it was too early in the morning to try and invent any. "What happened?" Sam repeated.

            "I- I don't know," Castiel admitted, though he couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from Dean now, like he might disappear if Cas stopped watching. "You were gone, and Dean did not remember me. He tried to- to _hunt_ me. He kept saying I killed you, but I didn't kill you, Sam."

            "You didn't," Sam agreed, and it sounded so reasonable that Castiel sagged a little in relief, like he had expected no one would believe him. "Look at us, we're all fine. Right?"

            Castiel's brows furrowed. "Yes. But then-"

            "You wouldn't hurt Sam," Dean told him firmly, voice still scratchy from sleep. "And I wouldn't- hunt you." The words stumbled out, covering the ones he'd been about to say. _I wouldn't forget you_. "Dream?" Dean suggested as he glanced quickly to Sam. His brother nodded agreement.

            "It was not a dream," Castiel insisted with a scowl. "It was very real."

            Sam shifted, dragging the weight of his gaze from Dean to Castiel. "Dreams can seem very real. Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference, even after you wake up."

            "I have been inside of dreams before," Castiel argued, his wings flexing a little in irritation under the fabric of his shirt. They pulled tight in embarrassment the next moment as he looked guiltily to Sam. "This did not feel the same."

            "It's different when you're the dreamer," Sam told him softly. He had that look on his face, like maybe he was about to start a session of talk-about-their-feelings-time, and it was still only five AM, so Dean shoved himself up from the bed, a noise of irritation roughing the back of his throat.

            "All right, both of you. It is too early in the morning for this crap," he told them, tone leaving no room for discussion, one finger held up to halt any protests. Sam raised his eyebrows in a way that suggested they shouldn't dismiss this, and Dean scowled at him. It was convincing enough, because Sam sighed and disappeared from the doorway.

            Castiel shifted uncomfortably in the doorway, blue eyes still locked on Dean. "I don't like..." he trailed off, jaw clamping shut.

            Dean took a deep breath and counted to three. He had dealt with enough bad dreams, enough of Sam's nightmares, to know that they didn't always shake as easily as waking up. That falling asleep again afterward was difficult, especially with the lurking fear that the dream would return. Castiel had only rarely slept in a vessel, only once or twice to Dean's recollection, and he supposed there hadn't been dreams then, with how exhausted Castiel had been. Perhaps his Grace had filtered them as it seemed to have filtered everything else. This was new to Castiel, and Dean was no stranger to new fears.

            So he sighed, and moved for the doorway. "Come on," he ordered, just a little softer than he'd intended.

            Castiel trailed silently after him down the hall, back to his new room. When Dean entered, Cas hesitated, looking at the bed as though it contained some sort of threat. Dean paused, looking over his shoulder, and then rolled his eyes. Castiel was a warrior of Heaven, this shouldn't be as paralyzing as it appeared to be for him.

            Except...

            Except fighting monsters and demons and leviathan, rebelling against the nebulous wrong that Heaven had become... It was all very different than Castiel's current situation. Different than dreaming about losing his closest friends, fearing hurting them, losing their trust again. Those were in the realm of things which were human, things which Dean, despite having over a quarter of a century more experience in the matter than Castiel, still had trouble with handling. None of this was going to be easy.

            He crossed the room and laid his hands on Castiel's shoulders, dipping his head just slightly to catch Castiel's uncertain gaze. He hadn't realized Castiel was trembling, ever-so-slightly. "Hey," he said softly, the need to protect him curling in his gut. "You're okay."

            "It was so real," Castiel breathed, meeting Dean's eyes.

            Dean's heart twisted up, Sam's voice echoing those words to him. "No, Cas. I'm real. You and me, right now. This," he said, giving Castiel's shoulders a squeeze. "This is real, okay?"

            "Okay," Castiel agreed. He took a deep, calming breath because that was what Dean seemed to want. "Okay," he said, firmer this time, and slipped from Dean's grasp. Dreaming as a human dreams was not going to be his undoing. He was an angel of the Lord. He had survived civil war in Heaven, the apocalypse on Earth, and been to Hell and back for Dean.           

            None of that lessened the feeling of relief that coursed through him when Dean took a seat at the end of the bed after Castiel had climbed in, or the comfort he felt when Dean leaned against the wall, stretching his legs out along the foot of the bed, and telling him softly that he'd stay until Cas fell asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

            The darkness in this place was not as suffocating as Castiel had thought. It was not peaceful, not by any stretch, but it was _safe_. Outside of the darkness, past the barriers he had built, he knew there was something clawing. He couldn't hear it howling but if he pressed a palm against what ensconced him, he could feel the vibration. He could feel its frustration bleeding through the cracks- and there _were_ cracks.

            They were thinner than hair, than transparent spider thread, not enough to catch his fingerprints against, but they were there. Something that wasn't him was leaking through, something intangible and angry. He shied away from the sensation, disliking the tar and oil feel of it.

            It _wanted_ him.

            He didn't know why, or why he didn't want to let it have him. It would be easier, he thought. It would be easier to let it claw its way through the wall, let it wrap around him, take him away from this lonely place, with its cloistered darkness, its lack of hope.

            But there was something there with him. Something quiet and warm, pressed against him without touching. It was strong and calm and Castiel threaded himself into it willingly. This thing, this other, welcome thing; it wanted him as well, but Castiel had no fear of it. Only a sense of belonging, a sense of Right.

            If he could stay close to the warmth which coiled around him happily, perhaps he could weather the other, howling presence. Perhaps the wall would hold, at least until he didn't need it anymore.

 

* * *

 

 

            When Dean woke, it was to a crick in his neck and an ache in his back. His legs were full of pins and needles that surged painfully when he flexed his legs, and he experienced a brief moment of disorientation upon opening his eyes. He was definitely in the bunker, but not his room and not Sam's room. Realization dawned quickly and he squinted over at the empty rest of the bed as he straightened. The clock on the nightstand told him he'd scraped up another couple hours of sleep at the foot of Castiel's bed.

            "Cas?" he called out, scooting painfully to the edge of the bed. He was getting too old to sleep sitting up against a wall. He tipped his head, but there was no response.

            Clambering to his feet, he shook out the nerveless feeling in his legs with a minimal amount of wincing before he wandered down to the showers. One of them was damp, fresh puddles on the clean, grey tiled floor. Dean chewed the inside of his cheek as he considered the missing towels for a moment. There were no towels in the room, which meant Castiel had taken them with him or Sam had done the showering.

            After flicking off the lights, Dean clomped down toward the library, trying not to be irritated at the missing angel. Sam was seated at his usual table, books spread open everywhere and a mug of coffee on the table in front of him. He glanced up when Dean appeared, but his attention flicked right back to the passage he was reading. Castiel was nowhere to be seen.

            "You seen Cas?" he demanded.

            Sam looked up again, brows drawing together. He shook his head, lips down-turning in a shrug. "What's up?"

            "Not in his room," Dean growled as he strode across the room, heading for the kitchen. "Not in the shower."

            Dean's concern was catching, and Sam closed his book to join in the search, heading the opposite direction of Dean. Together they scoured the bunker, the kitchen and the pantry and the weapons storage area. Searched all of the bedrooms, to no avail. They discovered a brand new area of boilers and machines that Dean didn't recognize and stopped Sam from explaining to him with an irritated noise. Cas was nowhere they looked, and Dean was trying very hard not to think of what that meant, when Sam just said it.

            "Maybe he went home."

            The wrenching loss that coiled tight in Dean's belly at the words was enough to steal his breath momentarily. Of course he had been thinking it, thinking that just maybe the spell had taken time to call home all of the angels. Maybe it disabled them first, before it dragged them back through the gates. Maybe there was nothing they had to do, nothing Dean could have done.

            Maybe Castiel was just gone.

            "No." The word tore from his throat, rough and final, and Sam just held up his hands in surrender. Dean stood rigidly where they had stopped, on the threshold of the library, just trying to draw breath. _He can't be gone._

            "Dean," Sam nudged softly.

            Dean made a noise that might have been a snarl, and shoved past Sam. "I'm gonna get some air," he snapped.

            "Dean!" Sam said more firmly, but Dean was charging for the exit and Sam didn't bother following. The sound of the slamming door echoed throughout the bunker.

 

* * *

 

 

            The outside air was mild, though the breeze was nippy, enough to begin to cool the anger coursing through Dean's blood. He didn't want to admit to himself that he'd begun to hope that Castiel could stay. That some stroke of luck had finally found him and he wouldn't have to lose one of the last remaining people he cared for. He didn't want to admit to how much it hurt to have the kindling hope extinguished, just like that, and so he fell back on the anger that always boiled under his skin.

            He was angry that the angels hadn't been what they should have been. He was angry they couldn't have kept a lid on the demon problem, saved the world without destroying Sam and Dean's lives. He was angry they'd had to close the gates at all, and that doing so would take away the first thing Dean had wanted for himself in years. The only friend he had left.

            A chill breeze cut through his thoughts, and he realized he was still in pajamas, his jacket wrapped over the back of one of the library chairs. He didn't want to go back in because Sam would be waiting, with that sympathetic look, and his _let's talk about this_. Dean didn't want to talk about this. Dean wanted to throw things, to break things, to escape for a bit to the bottom of a bottle like he hadn't done for ages.

            He took in a deep breath, let it out slowly. Ahead of him, perched at the edge of the drive, was his beloved Impala. She was clean, newly clean, and Dean felt a streak of appreciation for his little brother, who must have made sure she was full of shine when he brought her back from taking Kevin home. His hand moved for his pocket, for the keys, but they were indoors with the jacket. He cursed under his breath. He might have been too stubborn to go back for being cold, but driving was different. Driving Baby was worth facing Sam for, briefly.

            Except when Dean turned around, it wasn't the solid iron door that caught his eyes.

            It was Castiel

            It was Castiel, standing in the field of grass that had overgrown the land above the bunker, his face upturned toward the sky.

            Castiel, with Dean's black shirt shed on the ground at his feet, his brown and white striped wings slumped loosely open as he soaked up the warmth of the sun.

            Heart in his throat, relief flooding his system, Dean stumbled forward a step. Guilt chased on the heels of his relief, because if Castiel was there, it meant he was still stuck here. It meant they still had a problem, but it was a problem Dean was willing to have for the moment. It was a problem he greatly preferred compared to the problem he had just had, which perhaps only made him feel guiltier. He shoved it aside, because Cas was here, and all Dean wanted was to make sure he was real.

            He couldn't seem to make his voice work, wasn't sure he wanted to pull Castiel out of the trance he seemed to be in even if he could call out. Instead he skirted the entrance, climbing up the side of the steep hill that lead to where Castiel stood. The angel gave no indication that he heard Dean's approach, simply stood with an expression somewhere between happiness and longing. He was beautiful, bathed in sunlight, a gentle breeze sifting through his mussed feathers.

            "Cas," Dean called softly, unashamed of how his voice cracked over the name. He almost hated to pull the angel from his reverie. Castiel's vibrant blue eyes opened, falling from the clouds down to Dean's hopeful green ones. A smile lit his features.

            "Dean," Castiel greeted warmly, wings rising slightly. The rustle of them seemed to alert Castiel to the fact that they were still corporeal, because he suddenly snapped them to his back as tightly as he was able. A pale blush colored his cheeks, spread across his shoulders and down over his collarbones.

            Walking straight up to him, Dean grabbed him by the shoulders and only just barely managed to keep from shaking him. "You scared the hell outta me," he chastised.

            "I apologize," Castiel said sincerely, backing out of Dean's grasp and swooping down to grab the black shirt crumpled on the ground. "You and Sam both seemed to require more sleep."

            "We thought you got sent home," Dean told him thickly. _I thought you were gone._

            Something Dean didn't recognize flickered in Castiel's eyes, his fingers tightening in the shirt in his hands, his wings scrunching tightly to his back. He dropped his gaze from Dean's.

            "I'm still here," he murmured. Dean could hear the vague note of distress in his tone.

            Of course he was distressed, Dean thought, guilt needling at him. Once again, everything he knew had been taken from him because of Dean. This time, not even his Grace had survived the ordeal, and now Castiel was adrift in a world that he didn't fully understand, with only Sam and Dean to lean upon for aid. He had taken one step outside and there was Dean, already chastising him for it. He sighed, shoulders slouching a little.

            "Sorry," he grumbled apologetically. "We just didn't know where you went. You don't have to come in."

            Castiel's eyes raked over him, lips pursed, and then he pulled the shirt over his head, struggling a little to get it comfortably over his wings. Dean refrained from moving to help him, transfixed, watching the fabric flutter as the shirt settled. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't disappointed to see them go.

            "I don't mind," Castiel told him evenly, falling into step beside him as Dean began to move for the entrance of the bunker. "I am finished."

            When Dean hesitated, Castiel turned to look over his shoulder in curiosity. Dean's face scrunched a little in thought. "Cas... what were you doing out here?" It had looked an awful lot like just standing there, though in Dean's experience Castiel was never just standing, not really. Waiting, guarding, thinking... but never just standing.

            Castiel dropped his gaze, turned back around. Dean didn't press the issue, could see that Castiel was going to answer him in some way. Finally Cas took a deep breath, turned his face up to where the sun shone brilliantly in the early morning sky, and he smiled. If it didn't quite reach his eyes, Dean wasn't going to mention it.

            "I was praying," Castiel said simply.

            Then he was looking down, skirting the edge of the bunker's entrance walls, and disappearing from Dean's sight with a solid clunk of metal door. Dean watched until he was out of sight, then tracked his green eyes up, to the clouds, to the sky, to the heavens. He and Sam had spent so many nights sitting or sprawling on Baby's hood, just watching the starscape above twinkle and glitter. The sky had always been just stars then; just darkness and stars and nothing else.

            Before Castiel, Dean had never believed in Heaven.

            Before Dean, Castiel had never believed in anything else.

            Even now, even after everything, to think that Castiel would still pray to his absent father... It gave Dean pause, like maybe there was something to it, if Castiel could still believe. Dean considered it, he did; praying to God, hoping that He would be able to hear the lonely prayer of one desperate, retiring hunter over all the rest. That He might care enough to answer, because it involved his last earthbound angel. His wayward child.

            But Dean had only ever prayed to Castiel before, wasn't even sure where to start with someone else. So in the end, he just dropped his gaze, thumped down the last few feet of the hill, and followed his angel into the bunker.

 

* * *

 

 

            Castiel wasn't sure why Dean had insisted that he accompany them to the store. Dean said it was so that he could try on clothes before they bought them. Castiel had argued that his wings would be conspicuous, but Dean had fussed with his trench coat until, if he hunched his shoulders just right, they weren't amazingly obvious. Sam offered to stick nearby and block the view of anyone that got too interested, and that seemed to settle it for Dean.

            When Castiel spent too long on his tie, Dean interceded, thick fingers sliding the pieces in and around before sliding the knot up to the hollow of Castiel's throat, knuckles gliding up his sternum. Castiel swallowed, eyes meeting Dean's when he looked up. Dean let go like the tie had caught fire, then ordered them out of the bunker.

            Hanging back, Castiel paused a moment to run his fingers over the dark blue tie, soft from being worn for so many years. He didn't want to tell Dean that he'd learned to tie it the first time Dean had shown him, so earnestly, while teaching Castiel about human behavior. Maybe Castiel hadn't learned a lick of anything about human behavior in that moment, but Dean's fingers had been at his throat, nimble and sure. Castiel had memorized every motion like Dean was branding it into him.

            But as long as he didn't say anything, as long as he fumbled for a moment with tying an ineffectual knot, Dean would walk over. Dean would fix it for him, smile softly as he did it because the big, bad, warrior-angel of the Lord couldn't learn to tie his own damn tie. Because in that moment, Dean knew that Castiel needed him, when Castiel didn't have the words to say it any other way.

            Half an hour and a very quiet car ride later had found them at a store full of many sorts of clothing. Almost immediately, Dean had begun to pluck items off of shelves, seemingly at random. Sam stood just behind Castiel where he waited placidly, watching Dean rummage through a pile of blue jeans. He was frowning as he did it, and Sam kept glancing around as if he expected they were going to be attacked at any moment. This seemed unlikely, with the gates of both Heaven and Hell now closed forever, but old habits die hard.

            Castiel kept his wings pulled in tight, to seem as human as possible, feeling exposed because he couldn't sense anything beyond himself. He was so used to being able to extend his senses, brush over every living thing around them to look for danger. He was limited now, to sight and sound, human sight and sound, and it was frustrating to say the least. His ears couldn't separate most sounds like he used to be able to, and it was so eerily quiet without any frequencies bracketing the noises around him.

            He was so absorbed in his observations of his auditory dilemma that he startled when Dean shoved an armful of clothes into his chest. "Cas," Dean said, in a tone that said he'd already called Castiel's name a few times and was getting exasperated. When it was clear he had his attention, he patted the clothes in Castiel's arms. "Try 'em on. Let's go."

            Frowning, Castiel looked around for somewhere to place the clothes. He was not sure it was entirely appropriate to undress in the middle of the store, as no one else seemed to be doing so. "Dean, these people will notice my wings."

            For a moment Dean and Sam both stared at him before understanding dawned in Sam's eyes. "Not here," he said quickly, one hand pushing gently on Castiel's shoulder to guide him toward the changing rooms. "There are private rooms to try on clothes."

            Castiel looked to Dean, because that was relevant information he should have imparted, but his chastisement stuck in his throat at the faint blush on Dean's cheeks. Instead of opening his mouth, he let Sam steer him to the strand of rooms along the far wall of the establishment and into one of the larger rooms. A little triangle bench sat huddled in the corner and a full length mirror hung on the wall. Sam closed the door for him and Castiel dropped the clothing Dean had given him onto the bench with a frown.

            There were sets of clothing, that much was clear. Castiel counted three pairs of jeans and seven different shirts. There was some sort of jacket, the sort that Sam wore, that was not really a shirt and not really a coat, but had a hood attached that never seemed to get used. Castiel sighed, and began tugging off his clothing, trench coat first. He wasn't sure how he was going to fit on all of the clothes, or why there were so many, but the Winchesters were both fond of wearing multiple layers of clothing so he assumed this was Dean's intent.

            "This seems excessive," he called through the door as he pulled on the first pair of jeans. They didn't fit as well as Dean's old pair had, were not as soft. "Am I required to wear all of these?"

            There was a long silence, long enough that Castiel paused, wondering if the brothers were still outside the door waiting for him or if they had wandered off in search of more layers. It was Sam that answered. "Uh, not if you don't like them," he assured Cas.

            Castiel looked over at the pile of clothing, like maybe it would do something more engaging. "I have no particular feelings toward them," he informed Sam as he buttoned the jeans. "But there are a lot of them."

            Another silence, and then Sam laughing under his breath and Dean's voice full of exasperation. "Not at once, Cas. One at a time."

            Looking up, Castiel stared at where Dean's voice was through the thin door, and then turned to look at the pile of clothing. That made a lot more sense. He still wasn't sure about the shirts; they might have been big enough to fit over his wings, but none of them looked like they would be comfortable once they did. He selected a soft, blue one and pulled his wings in extra tight as he slid it over his head. It just barely fit.

            "This would be easier without wings," he informed them with a scowl.

            He could almost see the look the brothers were exchanging. Sam piped up first. "Maybe we can, uh, can modify it when we get back. You know, cut holes or something so they're not covered?"

            "If he's stuck here, he needs 'em covered," Dean argued, under his breath. Castiel heard him anyway, and he was right. Castiel couldn't walk amongst humans with his wings out for any reason.

            "I believe my trench coat would be sufficient to cover them in public," he suggested. Another silence.

            "Yeah," Sam said after a moment. "That could work. Do you want to just pick a few shirts and we'll fix them when we get home?"

            Castiel's breath stuttered in his chest at how easily Sam could say that word. _Home_. Like it was just that simple, like they would buy some clothes and go back to where the boys had taken root, and it would be Castiel's home as well.

            "Yes," he said softly. "I would like that, thank you. It is... uncomfortable, keeping my wings bound."

            There was a choking noise and the sound of Sam suppressing a breathy laugh at his brother. "We'll work on it," Sam assured him, his smile clear in his voice.

 

* * *

 

 

            The modifications weren't as difficult as Sam had imagined, but they had their setbacks. They started off cutting slits up the backs of the shirts, up to where the top of Castiel's wing joints were, the fabric just brushing them. Sam spent an hour online looking up how to hem the cuts they had made, and how to install buttons and whether they should use buttons or zippers or velcro to seal the shirts back after Castiel had put them on. Castiel hadn't made it easy for them; the zippers weighed the fabric down and the velcro was itchy and uncomfortable. He couldn't button the pieces together without help.

            "Your design may be flawed," Castiel pointed out after a few faulty attempts had ruined three of the shirts. Thankfully Dean had gotten extra shirts to practice with, plain t-shirts that were loose and thin and cheap.

            "You can't pull your wings through holes," Sam repeated for the tenth time. "So it's over or under, and under makes the most sense."

            "It only makes the most sense if it can be closed." Castiel was probably not aware of how grouchy he sounded, but Sam could understand. They had been at this for a while with no revelation as to how it should be done. It was tiresome.

            "Shut up, both of you," Dean growled without looking at them. A book was open in his lap, his head resting on his knuckles as he read.

            Sam pulled a small face, because Dean hadn't really been very helpful. He had barely even looked up since they got home. By the little scrunch of his eyes, Sam could tell his brother had a headache, but he also knew it wasn't bad enough to warrant suggesting he take something. Dean was in the stage where offers of help would only irritate him further, and so Sam turned back to his laptop.

            "What if it was just one?" Dean suggested after a long silence. Both Sam and Castiel looked over and Dean glanced up from his book. Sam guessed he hadn't actually been reading; it wasn't a difficult guess, as the last six times he had looked up, he'd caught Dean watching Cas from beneath lowered lashes. It was probably fooling Cas, but Sam was far from oblivious.

            "What d'you mean?" Sam asked, sitting up a little at the prospect of a new design. He could deal with Dean's staring problem when they were alone.

            "I mean, you been slicing two runs, but you only need one," Dean told him. "Here, look." He got up, crossed the room to where Castiel sat. At his motion, Castiel rose. "Turn around."

            Cas sighed, but he turned to display his back to Sam. He was not wearing a shirt, as they had been taking shirts on and off of him since this started. Sam didn't miss the little shiver Castiel gave when Dean laid a hand to his wing, the way Castiel snapped it out of Dean's hand to expose his back. Dean hesitated, and then looked to his brother to make sure Sam was watching.

            "You been cutting here, and here," he said, indicating lines straight down from Castiel's wing joints. "What if you cut a hole around both wings, and just made one slit here?" he suggested, indicating with one finger trailed down the backside of Castiel's ribs, under his left wing, the skin shivering under his touch.

            Sam studied the pattern in his mind, eyes tracing over how it would be done on Castiel's body. It would make sense, and that would leave them with just one fastening problem instead of two. "That could work," he said slowly, as Castiel turned back around to face them, pulling his wings in tight, and Dean beat a retreat back to his chair. "We could put a couple snaps in. I think you could reach them all with that cut."

            Castiel gave a small shrug to indicate his indifference to the idea. He seemed to just want this to be done with, and Sam couldn't blame him. "It sounds like an improvement."

            The keys to the Impala jangled as they landed on the table, skidding to a halt in front of Sam. When he looked up, Dean smiled. "Your turn to play fetch."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up, the rating for this has changed, gone up. It wasn't planned, but then coffee and I have bad influences for friends.

            Once the design was set and Sam returned with the necessary supplies, it wasn't difficult to craft a working shirt for Castiel. Although it was debatably fortunate that Sam had done enough sewing of flesh to be able to stitch hems into the cut fabric and attach the snap-together buttons along the seam. It was messy, but it was workable, and he decided that he'd be more careful with the rest of the shirts. He smoothed one hand over the garment on the table, giving it an appraising once-over, before he deemed it ready.

            "I think that'll do it," he announced, drawing both Castiel and Dean's attentions. He snapped open the buttons as he got to his feet, skirting around the edge of the table to get to Castiel's side. He was well aware of the way Dean's eyes tracked after him, and he contained his smile. "Let's see how it fits."

            After a deep breath, Castiel got to his feet. Sam held open the shirt and Cas rotated into it. When he paused, his back to Sam still, Sam began to check the fit of the shirt around the base of Castiel's wings. He managed to keep his voice neutral as he looked over his shoulder at his brother.

            "What do you think?" he asked, holding the fabric in place without buttoning it. "Fits?"

            "Fits," Dean said, voice dry.

            At that, Sam _did_ smile. He wasn't an idiot. He knew Dean hadn't turned a page in the last half an hour, and he knew where Dean's attention kept straying. Turning back to Castiel, he laid a gentle hand upon the lead edge of Castiel's wing, watching Dean's reaction from the corner of his eye. He felt the slight twitch Cas gave at the contact, but he seemed otherwise unaffected. Dean, on the other hand, stiffened visibly.

            "Can you try to reach the snaps, Cas?" Sam asked, innocent.

            Castiel shifted and caught the flap of material as Sam released it. Though it took a little bending at a weird angle on Castiel's part, he managed to snap together all three of the buttons. Sam smoothed a hand over the fabric, checking the fit, running a finger around the hole he'd cut and hemmed for Castiel's wings. It was snug, but wasn't chaffing, and Sam felt a little curl of pride. He'd managed to do something right.

            He caught sight of Dean from the corner of his eye again, watching them intently.

            "It fits well, Sam," Castiel supplied helpfully. "Thank you."

            Sam looked over to Dean fully, a small smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah?" Sam said, and Dean hackled at the tone. It was the _I'm about to pull a prank_ tone and they both knew it. Sam also knew he was going to pay, but this was an opportunity, one Sam wasn't in a mood to pass up. "Make sure you can open 'em without a problem," he suggested, raising both eyebrows at Dean, who scowled at him.

            Castiel shifted awkwardly. "I do not believe it will be a problem."

            "Humor me," Sam said, eyes not leaving Dean's even when Dean's gaze fell sideways back to Castiel.

            With a soft, exasperated noise, Castiel lifted both his wings. Slowly, he extended them to their fullest, stretching them out as far as they would go for half a second, displaying how mussed and disorderly the feathers had become. Dean's eyes tracked every motion. Oblivious to his observation, Castiel lifted his wings up as high as they would go, then folded them down as low as they would reach so that the primaries flexed along the floor. He slung them forward, under his arms, and then refolded them tightly to his back. Dean shifted uncomfortably, swallowing.

            "It will not hinder my wings," Castiel said with finality.

            Sam schooled his expression back to calm curiosity. "That's good, that's real good." With another grin, Sam ignored Dean's glare and smoothed one hand down Castiel's folded wing. Castiel's shoulders rose a little, but he didn't pull away, not like he had when Dean touched. There were many ruffled, damaged feathers, some of them from wearing a shirt over the wings, but more of them from before he had arrived here.

            "Sam," Castiel said, and it was almost, _almost_ a warning.

            "Sorry," Sam said, but he didn't remove his hand. He could almost feel the heat of Dean's stare on his back. "I was just thinking, you'll have to take care of your wings now, right? Since they're stuck like this?"

            The lines of Castiel's frown were visible even from behind him. "Yes," he responded quietly. "Though..." He gave a little shake of his head.

            "Though?" Sam prompted.

            "They are usually energy. I haven't had to... _groom_ them in a very long time," Castiel admitted. He sounded guilty, and Sam heard the undertone that Castiel hadn't meant to express; he hadn't been _able_ to, hadn't been in a stable enough position to do so. He'd been a war, like the rest of them, worse than the rest of them.

            Sam smiled, plucked at an errant feather and then looked over his shoulder at his brother. "Well, I think we can definitely help you out, right? Do you need anything special to... you know, whatever you gotta do to them? Maybe oil?"

            Dean's book clattered to the floor between his feet the moment the words were out of Sam's mouth. He cleared his throat as he reached down to pick it up under both Castiel and Sam's watchful gazes.

            "You okay, Dean?" Sam asked, earning him another glare.

            "I'm fine," Dean snapped, setting the book on the table and very nearly knocking over his coffee mug. He stood up too quickly to catch it as it tipped, banging his knee on the table in the process. "I'm just- I need-" He reached out a hand to steady his chair as he turned around and practically walked into it. For a split second he held himself very still, focusing. "I'm gonna go make dinner," he said carefully, neutrally.

            "Good idea," Sam agreed, giving Castiel's shoulder a pat. "Why don't you go with him, Cas? I'm gonna go take a look down in the storeroom."

            The look Dean gave him suggested that Sam could expect something along the lines of finding his shoes glued to the ceiling or being woken with a bucket of water in revenge. It didn't matter, because Castiel was padding softly toward Dean, oblivious to the exchange, and Dean didn't have a choice. For now, Sam had won.

 

* * *

 

 

            Dean pushed one of the steaks around the ridged surface of the pan, watching pink, greasy juice dribble out of the cut he'd flayed into the center. Across the room, Castiel sat perched on a bar stool, fiddling with the snap buttons Sam had sewn into the clean black sweatshirt he wore. It fit snugly around his wings, and Castiel was practicing closing and opening the snaps to fasten the shirt in place. As he did so, his wings shifted open and closed just a little as well, for balance.

            It took all of Dean's concentration to stay focused on the task of making dinner, the soft shift of feathers against feathers filling up the kitchen. He couldn't lie to himself; he wanted to look, because Castiel was so distracted that he wouldn't immediately clamp them to his back. His wings weren't small, by any means, but when he was really pulling them in, they were alarmingly compact.

            Finally, Dean cleared his throat, his curiosity overtaking his sense. "Was Sam right?" he asked, not looking up when Castiel shifted to look at him. "About the oil?"

            Castiel tipped his head just slightly, considering this. "We do not use oil," he said thoughtfully. "But, we do not... groom them when they are like this," he finished.

            Dean couldn't help himself; he looked over, caught Castiel staring at him, one wing pulled under his arm on his lap, the other slightly unfurled behind him. "Why not?"

            At this, rose flushed over Castiel's skin, visible even in the low kitchen lighting, and his fingers tightened on the feather he was adjusting. "It- it's _easier_ to adjust damages when they are wavelengths," he answered.

            Eyes narrowing, Dean turned back to the steaks. "You're a terrible liar, Cas," he said softly, not really an accusation.

            Scowling at Dean's back for a moment, Castiel sighed. His eyes tracked upward, to the ceiling. Soft blue sigil glowed above him, none of the light accounting for the illumination of the room. "It's easier to adjust damages _alone_ ," he conceded.

            That seemed to pique Dean's interest and he turned his attention back. He didn't ask, just waited patiently until Castiel caught him. Then he raised his brows in a clear encouragement to elaborate. Castiel sighed, eyes rolling. When he spoke, he refused to look at Dean, eyes stuck stubbornly off to one side.

            "Vessels do not typically have the flexibility to reach every part of an angel's wings to groom them," he told Dean, almost clinical. "It is easier with another angel there to help, but... we don't touch one another's wings. It's... uncomfortable."

            "Oh," Dean remarked quietly, turning back to the dinner. He swallowed his disappointment, told himself he hadn't really expected that Castiel would want anyone petting his wings. Even if they _were_ fucking gorgeous, and even if they were disheveled enough to seem like they needed serious attention. He squashed the little spark of hope that suggested he could have helped.

            Castiel, however, seemed to read the slight hunch of his shoulders for exactly what it was, because his wings slumped open just a little. "It's not bad, they are just- they're very _sensitive_ , Dean," he corrected, gently.

           Heat flushed through Dean at the gravelly drop in Castiel's tone over the word and he very nearly dropped his utensil. He cleared his throat, and then cleared it again before he could speak, desperate to change the subject to anything that wasn't the sensitivity of Castiel's wings. "Think you can fly?"

            It was an obvious left turn from the conversation, but Castiel let him take it, giving a small shrug. "I do not believe so." When Dean gave him a surprised look, he opened his wings partway. "The human body is not ideal for flight," he explained. "When we fly here, we are capable of phasing enough mass into the ether that we can achieve flight."

            "No mojo, no lift," Dean concluded, feeling guilty about bringing it up now.

            "Yes," Castiel agreed.

            When the timer dinged, both Dean and Castiel looked to the oven, startled. Castiel tipped his head to get a better look as Dean grabbed an oven mitt from a drawer and removed a tray with a large pile of freshly cut, seasoned potato wedges. Dean shut off the oven, setting the tray on the stovetop and dropping the mitt on the counter beside it. Quickly he grabbed a trio of plates and began splitting food onto them.

            "Grab drinks," he tossed at Castiel as he balanced the three plates. He wasn't watching the way Castiel slithered down off the bar stool, or the way Castiel's wings fluttered slightly before closing, or the curl of his long fingers over the handle of the fridge. He wasn't.

            He tore his gaze away and preceded Castiel to the library, ditching the most precariously balanced plate to Sam when his brother met him halfway. Sam quickly cleared space for everyone and accepted one of the bottles in Castiel's hands. "So, Cas, learn anything in the kitchen?" he inquired, with a small smile.

            "Dean is proficient with a blade in precise applications," Castiel replied, earning him a strange look from both brothers. He took a seat without seeming to notice.

            "Oh. That's... that's great," Sam said, shooting Dean a little curious look. Dean's slight shrug served as his answer.

            "Perhaps Dean learned something more appropriate to your interest," Castiel suggested as he turned his plate. He accepted the silverware Dean laid beside him before the older Winchester retreated to his seat. "Thank you."

            Sam's attention turned to his brother. "And what might that be?"

            Dean knew that his _shut up and eat your damn food_ glare would not deter Sam in the long run, but it at least earned him a grin and a pair of sealed lips from his brother for the moment. "None of your business, is what it is," Dean grunted, slicing into his steak. "Eat."

            Castiel glanced between the two for a moment, uncertain where the tension in Dean had come from, or why he was snapping at Sam, who seemed to be barely containing his laughter. Instead of asking, he turned his attention to his food and let the two of them have their secret. Whatever it was, he was sure that they would tell him if it was important.

            For a while they ate in silence, the scrape of knives and forks the loudest sound in the open space. Sam complimented the dinner, which seemed to placate Dean to a degree, at least enough that the frown smoothed off his features. Not terribly good at carving meat with the tiny utensils he'd been granted, Castiel awkwardly slices off bite-size pieces of steak and potato wedges. Sam's compliment was not unfounded; the steak had a very good, strong flavor that Castiel enjoyed, and the spices on the potato wedges had him rubbing his tongue along the roof of his mouth to try to cool it.

            Dean, of course, noticed, though he did his best not to.

            The scrape of Dean's plate on the table was loud enough to draw attention. He stood up from the table, fixing Sam with a no-nonsense glare. "You get to do dishes," he told him, not just a little vindictively. "I'm going to bed."

            Sam raised an eyebrow, glancing to the clock perched atop one of the bookshelves. "At ten?" he asked dubiously.           

            "I'm beat, Sam," Dean replied, irritation thick in his tone.

            Holding up both hands in surrender, Sam apologized. "Sorry, man. Yeah, go ahead. We gotta get up to head to Kevin's tomorrow anyway."

            Both Sam and Castiel watched Dean leave, and then Castiel turned his attention to Sam, brows furrowed. "Is Dean angry?"

            "No," Sam huffed, almost a laugh. "No, he's not angry, Cas."

            "Ill?" Castiel inquired. It was very early for Dean to be turning in, even if they did have to get up tomorrow.

            At that, Sam actually laughed, the sound choppy and breathy and pleasant to Castiel. He didn't see what was funny about his question, but he was happy to have amused Sam anyway. "He'll be fine. Hey, Cas?"

            "Yes, Sam?"

            "What did you two talk about?" Sam asked, dropping his voice a little even though there was no way Dean would hear. "In the kitchen."

            Castiel tilted his head a little. "Wing care," he said simply.

            A slow, thoughtful smile spread over Sam's lips the moment before he reached for his laptop.

 

* * *

 

 

            Dean stalked through the hall for a few paces outside of the library, just enough to be out of sight, before forcing himself to relax. Sam was being _Sam_ , prying where Dean didn't want him, poking at things which didn't need poking. Of course Dean was used to it, Sam had been picking at him his entire life, pushing Dean into emotional corners until Dean had to talk or react, but he just wasn't ready for that tonight. There was too much to sort through, too much he just didn't want to face right now.

            He headed directly to the showers instead of stopping by his room for clothes. The fact that there were not showers in every room had been somewhat disappointing, until Dean had actually stepped under the spray the first time. Perfect temperature, perfect pressure, perfect spray shape. He wasn't about to say that the showers would have made or broke the place, but it didn't hurt that they were so awesome. It made it hard to set up in motels anymore, where the shower heads were often rusty or broken, sending spray at weird angles with little pressure and an odd taste.

            The shower room was not grand by any means. There were four tiled stalls with opaque sliding doors, set in a cube beyond a changing area with benches and built in shelves full of large, initialed towels. Dean tried not to imagine what the embroidered initials stood for, whose names they had been, what owners were never coming home again. This had been home to a group of hunters, once; knowledge hunters, but hunters all the same. Their loss, however long ago, had become keenly felt the more Dean learned about them, and the closer Sam came to finding his calling along their path.

            Turning on the shower with a quick series of adjustments for temperature, Dean stepped under the spray and closed his eyes. He could feel his muscles relaxing, feel the tension leeching away over Sammy and the gates and the angel with his wings and his intense stares and his soft, gravelly voice-

            Dean scrubbed both hands over his face with a sigh.

            Okay, so maybe not _all_ the tension was disappearing.

            He didn't want to consider what was going on anymore. He'd spent days thinking about nothing outside of how he was going to handle losing Castiel to Heaven again, only to find out that they weren't. That Castiel was stuck here with them, whether he wanted it or not, and was stuck here as a human; or as close as he'd ever been to human.

            It was the wings that threw him off. Castiel had been depleted of Grace before, on several occasions. He'd been severed from Heaven's power entirely for a while. Dean had met him in the alternate, future time line Zachariah had created for him, and Castiel had been wingless then as well. Something was different this time. Significantly different, and Dean had the niggling feeling that if he could just figure out that puzzle piece, he could fit the rest together and solve this.

            With an irritated noise, Dean shoved the thoughts to the back of his mind. He'd been over it all and knew they needed outside help now. They would go see Kevin tomorrow and maybe the tablet would hold an answer, or at least a clue for where to start. They could get Castiel patched up and maybe send him... send him...

            Dean swallowed thickly, leaning his face into the hot water, jaw clenched tight. _Cas doesn't want to be stuck here_ , he reminded himself firmly. Even if Dean wanted him here - and he'd accepted that yes, he did want Castiel here - the angel's family was up top and Dean knew the meaning of family. He could call Castiel family, but at the end of the day, he knew there was a difference. He knew the other angels had been Castiel's family for millennia. He knew that if they didn't sort this now, there would be a day when Dean and Sam wouldn't be around to help Castiel go home. If they didn't sort this now, something might _happen_ to this possibly-mortal Castiel, and with no soul or Grace, Dean didn't want to think about what would happen if Castiel's life winked out.

            Growling in frustration, Dean snatched up the soap and cleaned quickly and thoroughly, just needing to be out of the shower and away from his thoughts. After shutting off the shower, he slicked his hands through his hair to rid himself of most of the water before grabbing one of the towels. He slung it around his hips and checked himself in the slightly foggy mirror.

            He pulled forward his arm, he one that had once born Castiel's mark. It had healed, somewhere in the middle of all his angelic repairs, but Dean could still feel it burning sometimes, like a phantom limb. He didn't feel it now, even when he smoothed fingers over the skin, laid his hand exactly over where it had been.

            He drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly, and then left.

            Thankfully the halls were deserted, Sam and Castiel still down in the library together. When he arrived, he hesitated in the doorway of his room, eyes catching on the sheaf of papers piled neatly on his bed. A small, round container rested atop them, full of some sort of liquid. Dean scowled, guessing Sam had found something he thought would be fun to tease Dean with, and so he ignored it.

            Tucking his towel more firmly around his waist, he dug out a change of clothes suitable for sleep. He very pointedly did not look at the papers while he changed, as if not acknowledging their presence would make them disappear.

            However, his endeavors to ruin Sam's plans were in vain; the papers and oil container did not disappear, or even move. With a sigh, Dean stalked across the room

He scooted the container away, setting it on the nightstand before scooping up the sheets, eyes scanning the first few lines.

            Instructions. A care sheet.

            He separated the first page to look at the second, and then the third. It was pages and pages of information about the care of falconry birds. His eyes caught on the words 'feather pinning' and 'preening.' His scowl began to morph to confusion the deeper in the stack he got, as the information changed from falconry to the biology of feathers, diagrams of barbed vanes and shafts beneath images of full wings with all the types of feathers labeled. Sam had done research Dean hadn't wanted to ask for, research about caring for wings. Research on how to help Castiel care for his wings, now that they had mass and shape.

            With another sigh, Dean sat heavily on the edge of the bed, determined not to be thankful for his prying, meddling brother. He had planned on going back to the library to help them with their reading once he'd cooled off a little in the shower, because he wasn't really tired, but he knew he wouldn't be able to focus until he'd satisfied his curiosity here. So he settled back against the headboard, papers in his lap, and began to read.

 

* * *

 

 

            When Sam rapped upon his door frame a long while later, Dean startled, so absorbed in his reading that he hadn't noticed his brother's arrival. He glanced quickly to the clock, and though he winced at the hour, Sam didn't comment. "Sorry, Sammy," he apologized, ready to offer excuses as to why he hadn't come back.

            "It's okay," Sam said quickly, smiling as he nodded a little toward the papers in Dean's hands. "I figured. I'm heading to bed."

            "You find anything?" Dean asked, trying not to feel too guilty.

            Sam shook his head. "Not a damn thing," he replied. "There's still a lot we haven't been through though, and we still have Kevin, tomorrow. We'll find something."

            Dean made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. "You send Cas to bed?"

            Sam gave him a look that very clearly said _not my job_. "Good night, Dean."

            For a moment Dean watched him go, then smacked the papers down on the bed in front of him in irritation. His eyes fell on the little container of liquid, which he scowled at now that he knew what it was. Where Sam had possibly found the oil in the bunker, he had no idea, but he knew what Sam was suggesting. They had both seen how uncomfortable Castiel was to have his wings out where they could see them now, both seen the way he picked at them or shifted his body so that they were out of sight, like he was embarrassed.

            Dean took a calming breath and then clambered out of his bed, grabbing his jeans from where he'd dropped them. He didn't bother with a different shirt before snatching the container from the sheets. He didn't have to stay, he reasoned. He could walk to Castiel's room, tell him that Sam had found some oil or something to help him groom his wings, and he could come back to sleep. Castiel could groom his wings in peace, and maybe he would feel less self-conscious about them, and that would be that. Easy.

            Of course, nothing in Dean's life was ever _easy_.

           Castiel, when Dean managed to talk himself into the doorway of the room, was perched on the edge of the small bed. His shirt was off, folded neatly atop the thick wooden chest at the end of the bed, and he had his back mostly turned toward the entrance. One of his long, tapered wings was extended, half the lead edge brushing the floor, the other half tucked under his arm to give him access to the feathers on the topside of the wing. His fingers were picking intently at a twisted feather, smoothing the barbs back together.

            Dean froze like a deer in headlights at the sight, a small 'oh' escaping him. Castiel's attention startled to him, his wing snapping up toward his body, folding up as he turned to face Dean.

            "Dean?"

            "Cas, I-" He paused, fingers tight on the container of oil, nerves alight with embarrassment. It was obvious Castiel hadn't wanted to be caught in the middle of grooming. "Sorry, I shoulda knocked."

            "It's okay," Cas told him, that almost familiar blush coloring his collarbones again. Dean couldn't keep his eyes off of it, couldn't stop the way his heartbeat picked up a little at the sight. "Do you require something?"

            Dragging his eyes up, he found Castiel staring at him expectantly. Swallowing, he held up the container Sam had left for him. "Uh, yeah, Sam..." he trailed off, not really sure what to say about it. "He thought this might help," he offered at last. "With your wings."

            Castiel's brow crinkled and he raised his head a little to get a better look. "What is it?" he asked.

            Dean looked down at it, because he honestly wasn't sure exactly what it was. It was a viscous liquid, he had guessed an oil, and the papers Sam had given him had said birds used oil or feather dust to preen their feathers. Instead of answering, Dean unscrewed the lid as he moved into the room, and offered the open container to Castiel. "You tell me."

            Eyes wide, Castiel looked between the oil and Dean. "It appears to be oil," he observed as Dean halted, just close enough that Cas could take the container if he wanted.

            "For your feathers," Dean managed, still holding out the container. Castiel didn't reach for it, didn't move a muscle at all. "For grooming, I guess."

            It was a long moment before Castiel silently reached up, accepting the container from Dean, eyes never leaving his. Both hands cupped the little container as he set it in his lap. "Thank you, then."

            Dean shifted, wiped his hands on his hips. He should leave now. He had delivered the oil, and it was late, and he was tired. He knew he was tired, but his hands were shaking just a little and Castiel was still _looking_ at him like there was something he was supposed to say and Dean's mouth was so dry he couldn't swallow the words that escaped him.

            "I could help, if you want."

            Something dark and foreign swept through Castiel's deep blue eyes at the words and Dean didn't miss the little jump of his jaw as his teeth clenched together. "You should go to bed," he said softly, voice deep and rough and just a touch ragged.

            "Yeah," Dean agreed as he slid onto the edge of the bed, his knee coming to rest warm against Castiel's. "I should."

            For a moment they sat there, Castiel's wings drawn tight to his back, Dean's green eyes holding him captive. Then Dean was reaching out, slipping the container from Castiel's slack grasp. His throat bobbed once as he watched Dean dip a finger into the oil, as if testing the temperature. It was the right consistency for grooming, glistening on Dean's skin with a dull sort of shine. When Dean slowly twirled a finger, a silent command to turn around, Castiel found himself obeying.

            Slowly, Castiel unfurled one wing, sweeping it gently back so that the bottom edge of it brushed against Dean's belly, feathers fanned across his lap. Dean held his fingers aloft of them for a moment, taking stock of what most needed attention, unable to keep from admiring the patterns embedded like artwork in the feathers. Soft browns and creams played stripes over the wing, and Dean thought maybe that accounted for the last page Sam had printed, the one of an osprey with its wings open.

            It was beautiful.

            "I'm sorry," Castiel murmured, barely a breath. His wing trembled just a little as he resisted withdrawing it from Dean's lap. "They are... damaged." His eyes met Dean's over his shoulder.

            Without looking away, Dean splayed his hand over the feathers, the oil on his fingers smearing onto a few of them. Castiel's eyes shuttered closed and Dean felt more than saw the shiver that coursed through him. "They're perfect," Dean told him earnestly.

            Castiel didn't answer, and so Dean pulled the oil out from under his wing, placed it on the bed beside his thigh. The oil soaked into the feathers where he spread it, bringing a glossy sort of shine to them. He ran the first of Castiel's feathers through his oiled fingers, feeling the barbs hook into one another, smoothing out the frayed edges. Dean's eyes closed for a moment at the small, breathy noise that escaped Castiel when he released the feather.

            "Dean," Castiel murmured, gravel-rough. Dean wasn't sure what he was asking for, if he even _was_ asking, or if the name was just wrenched from him.

            "Sorry," Dean managed past the tightness of his throat. "First time."

            Castiel's wing twitched in his hands and Dean could have sworn he heard the choked off end of a whine. "Just..."

            Taking a breath, Dean pulled himself together enough to take stock of the rest of Castiel's wing. There was not as much damage as Castiel would have lead him to believe. A few twisted feathers, a missing primary, a few damaged secondaries. Some of the feathers - _most_ of the feathers - were frayed at the edges, but that was nothing a little oil and a bit of gentle preening couldn't fix. He hoped.

            Castiel held himself rigid as Dean worked, hunched over, wing muscles clenched solid beneath Dean's hands. Dean took his time with the frayed feathers, beginning to enjoy the feel of them smoothing out between his fingers as he went. He warned Castiel before he plucked the feathers that were beyond repair, did his best to ignore the little, pained grunt when the feathers snapped free.

            By the time he was finished, Castiel's entire wing was smooth and glossy. The missing primary left a gap in the shape of it, but overall it was much better than when he started. He reached up, smoothed a hand over the lead edge of the wing, and felt Castiel shudder.

            "Cas," he said softly, hand trailing toward the base of the wing. He could feel the slight, insistent weight of Castiel pressing up into his touch, and his breath stuttered in his chest. "Other wing."

            The gentle rasp of feathers over his skin as Castiel withdrew his wing, folded it to his back under Dean's hand, was maddening. He stifled the sharp draw of breath, eyes riveted on the shift of Castiel's body as he moved to extend his other wing. When he draped it over Dean's lap, Dean found his fingers burying themselves in the soft feathers before he could even think about why that might be a poor decision.

            Castiel _keened_ when Dean's fingers tightened.

            The sound shot a bolt of desire through Dean so thickly he could hardly breathe. He'd been ignoring the feeling for days, telling himself at every turn that it was nothing, but Cas was in front of him now and it was getting impossible to ignore what he _wanted_.

            "Cas," he grated out, and received only a thin, ragged noise in response.

            He loosened his grasp, dragged his hands down Castiel's trembling wing, leaving glistening oil streaks in his wake. He could feel his breath, shallow in his chest, his thoughts sticky and slow as he tried to focus on anything other than how much he wanted to press his palms into Castiel's wings to feel him push back, to make him move. He was supposed to be helping him. This was supposed to be simple.

            There was a moment, then, of utter stillness. Dean's hands lay spread open over the bottom edge of Castiel's wing, trails of oil leading to them like evidence of a transgression. Castiel held himself taut as a drawn bowstring, breath caught in his chest, his heartbeat thrumming beneath his skin. Dean could have lifted his hands. He could have taken another helping of oil from the container now on the floor, could have plucked the first of the bent feathers Castiel had not yet reached, could have started running frayed feathers through his fingers one by one.

            But he didn't.

            Instead, he lifted his left hand, reached up to stroke it down the lead edge of Castiel's open wing, down the firm edge of the longest primary in a slow, deliberate caress.

            Castiel snapped.

            Before Dean could register what was happening, Castiel's wing was gone from his lap, folded tightly against his back as he whirled upon Dean. The throaty noise torn from him sent a shudder through Dean as Castiel pushed him backward, crushed their lips together before Dean could stop him. Not that Dean wanted to, not that Dean wanted anything other than the press of Castiel's warmth against him, the heady sensation of suddenly having a lap full of sexually frustrated angel.

            He let go of thinking as his hands came up, sliding along Castiel's jaw to pull him in closer, lips parting to taste him. Cas let him, swallowing his moan as he licked into Dean's mouth, crawling up to straddle his hips. Dean's hands slid down, over the pulse line of his neck, over the ridge of his collarbones, thumbs flicking over his nipples.

           Castiel's teeth worried Dean's bottom lip, eliciting a thick, needy noise from him, his fingers tightening at Castiel's ribs. The muscles there were different than they should have been, thicker, stronger, made for flexing wings. Dean pressed his palms tight to the warm flesh, dragged them down until they caught on Castiel's hips, little pink trails left in their wake.

            Cas groaned when Dean's fingers tightened, just slightly. He rocked forward, cheek to cheek with Dean, breath hot in Dean's ear as he ground their hips together. His fingers, wrapped so tightly around Dean's shoulders, loosened enough to slide down his arms, encircle his wrists, and bring them up above his head. Dean shuddered as Castiel froze then, hands pressing down on Dean's wrists, pinning him there, eyes closed as he drew in a careful, stuttered breath.

            "Cas," Dean implored softly.

            A reedy noise bubbled up from Castiel, but he obeyed the unspoken command, opened his eyes to look at Dean, lost himself for just a moment in the intensity of Dean's lust-blown gaze. "I'm sorry," he uttered, breath shallow, voice wrecked.

            Dean shifted, rolled his hips to rub up against Castiel with a deep noise of appreciation. _This_ is what he been avoiding, though at the moment he couldn't fathom why. He _wanted_ this- hell, _needed_ this, maybe had always needed this, even if he hadn't been able to place it, hadn't been able to name it. Now that he was here, that Cas was still here, that he _had_ him when he'd spent so long believing he was going to _lose_ him, he wasn't about to give him up or shy away.

            "I'm not," he murmured as Castiel's grip tightened at the motion, a harsh breath rasping out like Dean had torn something from him.

            Then his fingers loosened and Dean was sliding from his grasp, hands seeking his skin once more. He obeyed the hoarse _up_ that dropped from Dean's lips, wriggled out of Dean's worn jeans after Dean thumbed open the button, zipper teeth grating as they released. His fingers sought the hem of Dean's shirt, letting Dean sit just enough to drag the shirt over his head, toss it somewhere that was less important than the feel of Dean's smooth skin beneath his fingerprints.

            He faltered when he reached Dean's pants, couldn't focus past the way Dean's hands skimmed down his arms, the way his fingers curled over Castiel's shoulders. His fingers were trembling too much to pull apart the zipper, a frustrated whine seeping out of him when Dean covered Castiel's hands with his own. He let Dean help, watched Dean slide his hands down his own hips to remove the last cloth between them, kick it off his ankle the moment before Castiel sank down atop him once more.

            Castiel's wings slacked open then, mantled possessively over either side of Dean as they kissed. He raked one hand down Dean's chest, supporting himself with the other, enjoying the feel of Dean beneath him. He stilled as Dean reached up, brushed his fingers over the underside of Castiel's wing, drawing a sharp, broken gasp from him.

            "Dean," Castiel groaned, the name deteriorating into a rough, needy sound as Castiel pressed back against Dean's touch.

            A smirk on his lips, Dean dragged his hand along the bone of Castiel's wing, along the soft, exposed skin, until he reached where wing met body. Castiel stifled a shout that would have brought Sam running, nails biting into the skin of Dean's shoulder when Dean rubbed his fingers over the sensitive joint. His breath stuck in his chest as Dean repeated the motion, and then Dean was kissing him again, pulling him in, shutting him up.

            He rutted down hard against Dean, a broken rhythm at first, disjointed by his desire to move every which way, to touch Dean everywhere at once, until Dean's free hand steadied his hips. Until Dean was rocking up against him in a pattern he could match, his other hand still curled around the base of Castiel's wing, driving him mad. Until he was aching with a need he couldn't quite place, couldn't quite name.

            He felt the coil of pleasure in his gut tightening, felt the moment Dean's rhythm faltered, knew there was release so close. His forehead dropped to the crook of Dean's neck, his tongue swiping hot over Dean's collarbone, tasting of salt and sweat and _Dean_. Lips pressed against flesh, he rocked down firmly, whined low and deep at the arc of pleasure that coursed through him where they touched, let his teeth find Dean's skin. The rich, throaty noise Dean made as Castiel nipped hard, sucked down, left his mark, shot straight through Castiel like fire.

            His hips twitched down hard as he came, hot, white stripes between them, a rough sound torn from his throat. Dean's hands were on his hips, fingers digging in as he pressed up against him, shuddering full body with his own release a moment later, lip caught tight between his teeth to keep from crying out.

            For a while the only noise was the harsh sound of their breathing, deep and desperate and sated. Castiel pressed his nose into Dean's shoulder, felt Dean's hand slip from his hip, his fingers thread through the hair at the nape of Castiel's neck. Cas drew a shuddering breath, sweat still cooling on their skin as he pressed against the bed with the lead edges of his wings for a moment before drawing them in tight to his body. Dean's hands slid down his arms until his thumbs rested in the crooks of Castiel's elbows, pressing gently. Castiel surrendered, allowed the pressure to buckle his elbows, shifted sideways as he let himself down slowly to one side of Dean, breath coming slower now.

            Deep green eyes met his when he risked a glance, breathtaking in their intensity. Cas ducked his head just slightly when Dean leaned forward, pressed a brief, soft kiss to his forehead. He felt like he might burst from the surge of emotion that welled up inside of him at the gesture.

            Something must have shown on his face, because Dean's brows drew together in concern. "You okay?" he asked, voice rough and low and raw.

            "Yes," Castiel answered, looking up, eyes catching on the red mark on Dean's collarbone. He swallowed, reaching up to brush a thumb over it, thinking that if he still had the ability to clear it from Dean's skin, he wouldn't.

            Dean's gaze tracked down and he tipped his head to see where Castiel's fingers touched. He couldn't help the grin that twitched at his lips. "Not quite a handprint, is it?" he teased softly with a little huff of laughter.

            Castiel scowled, just a little, but he was too tired to say anything about the seriousness of the previous scar that had been left. If Dean could joke about it, Castiel could let it go. He closed his eyes, laid his hand flat over Dean's heart, and let himself relax into the rhythm of it for a time. Dean allowed him, his breathing evening out a little as he drifted in and out of a doze beneath Castiel's touch.

            Of course, they couldn't sleep like that, crammed upside down on Castiel's bed, and after a bit, Dean roused Castiel to do something about it. They snuck to the showers to rinse off and Dean steered Castiel to his bedroom instead when they were finished. They dressed lightly, Dean letting Castiel borrow a pair of boxers before herding him under the covers. He crowded him up against his side after joining him, and was asleep almost as soon as he closed his eyes.

            Castiel lay awake for a little longer, listening to Dean's heartbeat. He could feel his own pulse beneath his skin, the rasp of his breath in his throat, and for a little while he wondered if it would be so bad to just give up the search for what had happened. If they just stopped looking, stopped asking questions, stopped trying to find a way to fix it, and let Castiel stay.

            He didn't have an answer for that, wasn't sure there was one and if there was, he wasn't sure he wanted it. He didn't want to have to make that decision, so for now, with Dean curled warm against him, heartbeat steady in his ear, Castiel just closed his eyes. Whatever else there was in the world, it could wait until tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Raise your hand if you thought the oil was going to have another use...


	6. Chapter 6

 

            It had stopped howling, stopped clawing and tearing at his defenses but Castiel could not relax. The uneasy calm around him was not the calm of an abated storm; it was the eye of a hurricane. It was the moment of dread in the pit of his belly when he knew that what hunted him hadn't stopped, it had just found a different tactic. A new way to get to Castiel.

            _Come home_

            It was Gabriel's voice, and he remembered Gabriel. Soft, wonderful Gabriel with a mouth full of sass and a heart full of warmth. Longing seized Castiel and for a moment he nearly broke down the barrier, nearly clawed until it gave.

            _Come home, Cassy_

            Balthazar, and Castiel knew it was not Balthazar because his brother would never use that gentle, wheedling tone. Balthazar took what he wanted and didn't look back and maybe sometimes he was nice, loyal when it counted, but he was never _gentle_. Castiel curled up in his corner, letting the warm presence that was his only company here coil around him protectively.

            _Come home, child_

            And he knew his father's voice, despite never having heard it, and he knew what had screamed outside his barrier. It was not Gabriel or Balthazar or any of his brothers or sisters. It was not his father. It was Home, it was Heaven, and it would have him again. It still wanted him despite that he had Fallen, still stretched cold, unloving claws toward him. It was selfish, and he belonged to it, and it would not let him stay away forever. It would drag him back eventually, make him leave.

            _I wont_ , he told the darkness. He couldn't remember why he didn't want to go, and that was the worst of it. So he put his hands over his ears and closed his eyes, wrapped up in the Other presence around him, and tried to keep the whispers at bay.

 

* * *

 

 

            When Dean woke, it was to a soft, warm haze of contentedness. He turned his face into the pillow, into the cradle of his arms, and took a deep breath. Draped across his back he could feel the weight of one of Castiel's wings, feathers whispering across his shoulder blades, the sensation muted by sleep-dulled nerves. There were thoughts he had about that, about the man stretched out beside him, about the press of his body and the ankle crossed over Dean's under the sheets, but they were distant thoughts, overshadowed by relief.

            Shifting, he rolled toward Castiel as gently as he could, careful not to wake him. Castiel's wing lifted slightly, but it seemed to be an unconscious motion, so Dean let out his breath, pulled his arm down so that he could run his fingers over the lead edge of the wing, the lines of his fingerprints snagging gently on the barbs of the feathers as they passed. He loved the feeling, closed his eyes and relished it for a moment.

            The soft huff of laughter from across the room drew his attention, his heart leaping up into his throat.

            Sam stood in the doorway, a mug of something steaming in his hands, a soft smile on his lips as he leaned against the frame. When their eyes met, the corners of Sam's lips twitched up and Dean's belly flopped over. This really wasn't how he wanted to tell Sammy what had happened. He wasn't sure he was _going_ to tell Sam what happened.

            But it wasn't upset lighting up Sam's eyes, it was satisfaction, the sort that comes with being right after an argument. He was _smug_. When his brows flicked up in question and his eyes slid sideways to Castiel, just briefly, Dean's lips pursed. Sam hid his smile, stifled laughter.

            "Pancakes or waffles?" Sam asked, barely a breath.

            The tightness in Dean's chest lessened some. Sam wasn't going to press this, at least not now. "Pancakes," Dean rumbled, voice still rough from sleep. As Sam turned to go, Dean shifted a little, unable to follow. "Sam?" Sam paused, looking back to his brother curiously. But Dean didn't know what exactly he wanted to ask, so he shut his mouth and dismissed it with a little shake of his head. His gaze fled upward to the blank ceiling so he wouldn't have to see Sam _looking_ at him.

            Sam smiled, though, because he got it, because his brother had never been any good at talking about things like this. He had learned how to hear the things Dean _didn't_ say just as clearly as the things he did. So even though Dean didn't know the words to the question, Sam knew the answer.

            "It's not okay," Sam told him quietly, a snort escaping him when Dean's stare snapped back to him. "It's _great_ ," he stressed, voice dropping as Castiel shifted in his sleep beside Dean. "It's really good, Dean. For both of you."

            Dean's face wrinkled in mock distaste of his brother's sentiment. "Pancakes," he ordered, and Sam rolled his eyes before disappearing from view.

            Head dropping back, Dean let out a small huff of air and looked sideways to Castiel. His face was softer in sleep, the lines of worry about his eyes smoothed out, expression slack. Dean turned enough that he could stroke a finger down Castiel's face, feather light. His stubble was not quite long enough to start softening, but Dean sort of enjoyed the rasp it made in the silent air. He sort of liked the flutter of warm content that coursed through him when Castiel's nose wrinkled, and the blue of Castiel's eyes when they opened.

            "Morning," Dean murmured.

            Castiel's eyes closed again, but briefly. "Good morning, Dean." His wing began to pull in and Dean lifted his arm to allow him, unashamed of the way his fingers sought out the edge as it slid past, letting the feathers run beneath them.

            After that, neither of them was sure what to say, how to address what lay between them and so Dean did what he was best at and avoided it entirely for the moment. "Sam's making breakfast," he offered. It was as much a distraction as it was notification that Sam had been here, had seen them. "Pancakes."

            A low hum of approval served as Castiel's answer. Dean's belly grumbled, loud enough for both of them to hear, and Castiel smiled. "We should join him, then."

            Disappointment prickled at Dean's skin. He wanted breakfast, and he knew that they had to get up, had to pack the Impala for the time they would be gone to visit Kevin, but there was a part of him that craved _this_. Craved this quiet, safe moment, in a stable place, in his _home_ , just basking in whatever he could have with Cas. The paths he'd never let himself look at before were open to them now, however tentatively.

            "Yeah," he agreed. "Then Kevin's."

            Dean could feel the rumble of Castiel's agreement against his arm before Castiel shifted and heaved himself to a sitting position, the sheet dropping away from his skin. Dean's eyes wandered, but he kept his hands to himself as Castiel scrubbed palms over his eyes. When his hands fell away, his gaze settled upon Dean. "You think Kevin will find something to send me back."

            Something dark flickered in Dean's gaze. He didn't want to send Castiel back, especially not now. "We have to at least figure out what happened."

            Without taking his eyes from Dean, Castiel considered this for a long, quiet moment. Dean let him, not sure what to say, not wanting to get up and disrupt him. Finally Castiel drew in a slow breath and let it out through his nose, his gaze wandering off to the side the way it did when he didn't want to tell Dean the truth but was going to anyway.

            "I don't want to _go_ back, Dean."

            "Cas..." Dean said softly, with no idea what to do with that admission.

            Of course he didn't want Castiel to go back, of course he would do whatever was in his power to keep Castiel beside him if that is what the angel wanted. But they had to know what had happened before they could make that their plan, and he knew how the Winchester brand of luck had the terrible habit of going sideways in the worst of ways.

            "I'm sorry," Castiel said, when Dean was unable to find words. "I know we must investigate what occurred, because it may be dangerous."

            Sam had said as much to him last night, when he had asked. Sam was worried that the spell was continuous, that the gates could not truly close until all of the angels - Castiel included - had been called home. Even if everything was fine, if the gates were closed and Castiel had somehow been made an exception, Sam wanted to be _sure_. He wanted to _know._

Truthfully, so did Castiel. He wanted to be safe, wanted this to be true and real and permanent. He wanted to stay, and to do that, they had to first go.

            "Yeah," Dean agreed, getting to his feet as he rolled off the side of the bed.

            He could feel Castiel's stark blue eyes tracking him as he dressed, as he grabbed his duffle and began putting clothes into it. After a few minutes, Castiel rose as well, smoothing Dean's sheets and covers back into order. Dean didn't mean to look, but he couldn't help noticing the way Castiel's wings were loose, not pulled so self-consciously to his back. The right one was much neater today, sleeker and healthier looking than it had been before Dean had brought the oil with him. Along his left wing there was a streak of brighter color, from where Dean's hand had slid down it just before Castiel had turned upon him.

            He couldn't keep from smiling at that. He knew that he would help Castiel groom that wing, that the patch of oiled feathers would blend in with all the rest afterward, but for the moment it was like a brand, Dean's handprint upon Castiel this time. He liked it.

            When Castiel made to slip unnoticed out of the room, Dean reached out, snagged the edge of his wing because he couldn't reach his wrist. Castiel froze, but he didn't pull his wing from Dean's grasp as he had done before. He just turned as Dean released him, fixed Dean with that intense, confused stare.

            "This doesn't-" he cut himself off, not sure where he was going with this. He should have let Castiel leave, to go pack so they could get on the road. "This- we're okay, aren't we?"

            Castiel smiled, just the faintest upturn at the corner of his lip. "Yes, Dean."

            Relief washed through Dean, and he nodded, satisfied. He wasn't ready to talk about it, not really. "You wanna get that other wing fixed up before we go?"

            A very attractive flush spread under Castiel's skin. "I- I will take care of it after breakfast."

            Dean's eyes widened slightly as he realized how his offer must have sounded, but Castiel was already slipping from the room. Taking a deep breath, Dean returned to packing his duffle and tried to keep rein on the flutter of happiness that had settled in his gut.

 

* * *

 

 

            Breakfast was a subdued affair by the time they reached the library. Sam gave them each a plate of somewhat lumpy pancakes, bacon that hadn't been pressed, and fruit that Castiel took from Dean's plate after Dean scrunched his face at its intrusion on his otherwise perfectly fine breakfast. Dean accepted a mug of lukewarm, black coffee from Sam, who waited just long enough to make sure they began to eat before he sat back down with the shirts he'd been working on the night before. There were three others he'd cut up and put snaps on, folded neatly on Castiel's side of the table. It wasn't much, but it was better than one suit shirt and Sam or Dean's old shirts.

            Castiel ate with surprising efficiency compared to how he had savored the food the previous day. Then he disappeared, mumbling about packing and travel. The moment he was gone, Sam turned back to Dean and gave him _that look_. Dean knew the look because Sam had been giving it to him since they were kids; it was the one that said he wasn't getting out of talking to his brother this time.

            "What," Dean spat out gruffly, not really a question.

            Sam sighed, the sound sticking in the back of his throat in irritation. "Are you okay?"

            "I'm fine, Sam," Dean growled, and it wasn't a lie.

            "Do you need to-"

            "No, I don't," Dean told him firmly. "Look, Sam, it's not a big deal, okay? Just leave it alone."

            "Okay, alright," Sam said, holding his hands up, palms toward Dean in surrender. He didn't believe it wasn't a big deal, as it had been over six years coming, but he believed it was more upsetting to Dean to be questioned about it. "So, Kevin called around six," he offered instead, changing the subject. He leaned back in his chair. "He wanted to know if Castiel still had wings."

            Dean sat up straighter, fork clinking against the edge of the nearly empty plate. "Well that's pretty specific," he observed.

            "Yeah," Sam agreed. "He said he was going through notes from the angel tablet, and came across a section that doesn't make sense. Says he wrote down a few lines that started off about the gates, but weren't, or at least he thought they weren't. When he figured out it was a dead end regarding the trials, he stopped translating."

            "There's a section about Cas' wings?" Dean asked skeptically.

            "Not sure," Sam said, shrugging. "He said it's jumbled, but he wrote down a few words about after the gate-closing, including a note about - get this - corporeal angel wings."

            "That's great," Dean said neutrally, picking up his fork. It was great, it was what they had hoped, but Dean couldn't muster excitement over it.

            _I don't want to_ go _back._

            As if Dean had not been worried enough just about losing Castiel to the gate closing. As if it hadn't been bad enough they were friends, when everything between them was buried and disregarded in light of the trials they faced. As much as Dean didn't want it to, last night had _changed_ things. It had given Dean a reason to believe he could hold on to Castiel, that maybe, just maybe, he could keep one thing for himself.

            But whatever was in Kevin's notes could change things again.

            Dean didn't want to think about what would happen if the notes said Castiel couldn't stay. He didn't know what Castiel would do if there was a choice, or what he would do if there wasn't. He didn't know what would happen if the tablet said Castiel was stuck, with no chance to go back home.

            "Dean?" Sam inquired softly. "We don't have to do this. I can call it off with Kevin, if you..."

            "No," Dean said firmly. "We gotta know, Sammy. We can't get by wondering if he's just gonna disappear sometime. We lived that way too long to keep it up anymore."

            "Okay," Sam said quietly. "I'll let Kevin know we'll be there late tonight."

            Dean handed over his empty plate when his brother held out a hand for it, then sat for a moment staring at the scatter of books and clothing covering the library tables. When they provided no more of an answer than the night before, Dean clambered heavily to his feet and went to herd Castiel out to the car. It was going to be a long day.

 

* * *

 

 

            Castiel spent most of the ride to Kevin's asleep in the backseat, wings slumped open and jaw tight as he dreamed of the flying he would never again do. Dean spent most of the drive trying to keep his mind off of the way Castiel had flexed into his touch that morning, the reedy noise that escaped him as Dean smoothed fingers through the downy feathers at the joint as he helped groom out his other wing. Sam spent most of the ride oblivious to either of their dilemmas, one leg pulled up and his nose in one of the more promising books from his library.

            It was nearly midnight when they finally found themselves on Kevin's doorstep. They had managed to make it out of the bunker shortly after breakfast, only stopping for a late lunch at a drive through long enough to get food and let Sam take over driving through the dark. Dean rapped sharply on the door and the porch light flickered on as locks began to click open.

            Six. Seven. Eight, Dean counted to himself, and then the door was drawing open and Kevin was aiming water guns at all of them. They all processed themselves as human before Kevin relaxed and silently let them in, eyes tracking every movement Castiel made.

            "You guys couldn't possibly have just closed the gates and be done with it, could you," Kevin berated them as he lead them into the kitchen. The table bore a strong resemblance to the library tables at the bunker, covered in papers that seemed innocuous until the symbols and occult scratches were actually read. Sam immediately began sifting through them as Dean turned to Kevin.

            "It's never _done_ ," Dean reminded him. "Sam said you found something about wings?"

            Kevin's shoulders tensed and his eyes flicked to Castiel. His wings were completely out, his trench-coat in the car. It was so late at night, the darkness well set, that they hadn't figured he would need it between the car and the house. Dean didn't miss the look, or the way it cleared, and his lips pursed. He knew that look. He had spent two years watching that look flicker over the kid's face whenever they saw him. Whatever Kevin had found wasn't good.

            "Um, yeah," Kevin said finally, and then shot a nervous look to Sam and Dean. "I need to talk to Castiel alone for a minute, before we dive into any of this like a bunch of lemmings."

            Castiel and Dean traded looks before Dean shrugged. It was up to Castiel.

            "As you wish," Castiel replied, turning his focus back to Kevin.

            With a nod to Sam and Dean, Kevin lead Castiel out of the kitchen, down the hall, and to a set of stairs. Castiel hesitated when Kevin began to trod up them, but if Kevin required more privacy than the next room over, Castiel couldn't argue. He followed Kevin up the stairs, down another hall, and into the room farthest from where the Winchesters sat. When he closed the door behind them, Castiel was not surprised.

            What surprised Castiel was Kevin's first question.

            "I don't know how else to ask this, so I'm just going to start asking," Kevin told him and even Castiel could hear the apprehension in his voice. "Sam told me once that you're with us because you pulled Dean's ass out of Hell after his deal. That you had to pull him out of Hell because he started the apocalypse but he could also stop it- because he was the _only_ one who could stop it. How'm I doing?"

            "Your information is accurate," Castiel affirmed, brows creased a little. This was not at all what he had been expecting

            Kevin took a deep breath and let it out. "Okay, so, sections of the demon tablet and the angel tablet talk about the apocalypse. I didn't read them closely - because we had a lot bigger fish to fry at the time - but I read some of it, and it said that to break the first seal, Hell would have to break the Righteous Man. In other words, Dean."

            Castiel shifted uncomfortably, dropping his gaze away from Kevin.

            "It was Dean," Kevin repeated, and even though it wasn't a question, his tone ensured that it required an answer.

            "Yes," Castiel told him stonily.

            "That information... it wasn't on the _angel_ tablet, Castiel," he said quietly. "When you found Dean-" He cut himself off, until Castiel looked back up at him. "He wasn't human anymore, was he." It was every bit the accusation Castiel had been hoping never to hear.

            Castiel's eyes closed, his jaw tight, face scrunching just a little as if in pain. "No," he ground out. "I was ordered to rescue the soul of the Righteous Man from the Pit, but when I got there..." He trailed off, looked up to meet Kevin's gaze again. "When I found him, what was left was shredded, blackened. What I found was a new demon, with only the faintest wisp of humanity clinging to its edges."

            "But he's human now," Kevin said. "You did something to him. Mojoed him back or something, right?"

            "Yes," Castiel admitted, noting that Dean's terminology for his Grace had regrettably rubbed off on Kevin. "We had laid siege to Hell, I had watched my brothers fall to bring me to the feet of the Righteous Man, that I might carry him free of that place. I had _orders_ , at a time when orders were all I'd ever known. For an angel to fail our Father's orders... it was better to die."

            "So you fixed him," Kevin concluded. It was very nearly an accusation. "Using your Grace?"

            "I purified him, yes," Castiel responded hotly. "I took hold of the last shred of his humanity - his love for his brother - and I used my Grace to cleanse all of the taint from his soul. I rescued him like I was _ordered_ to do."

            "And it left a mark?" Kevin concluded. Castiel nodded but his brows furrowed, because there was no way Kevin had ever seen the handprint scar on Dean's shoulder. The scar had long been healed by the time they met Kevin.

            "How did you know that?" Castiel asked softly.

            Kevin let out an exasperated sigh. "Look, the tablet said that it should have consumed you," Kevin told him, ignoring the question. "The act of retrieving the Righteous Man was _supposed_ to consume you, eat up your Grace. It was a death sentence. You were supposed to be frikkin' _sacrifice_." Castiel heard the resentment in his tone; in his own way, Kevin was supposed to have been a sacrifice as well.

            "Yes," Castiel agreed. He had known that, at the time. He had volunteered. The moment he had laid his Grace like a net over Dean's warped, shrieking soul, he had expected to be destroyed, his last act the salvation of mankind.

            Yet a moment later he had become aware of the soft, blue soul coiled around his hand, the whisper of Dean's presence against him like a cool cloth to a fever. He had been drained, exhausted, confused, but he had orders. He had gotten out, and it could only have been God's will that he survived.

            "How did you know about the mark?" Castiel repeated quietly.

            Kevin rolled his eyes. "Downstairs," he replied, moving past Castiel and leaving the door open behind him. Castiel sighed, and followed.

 

* * *

 

 

            All four men sat around the kitchen table, staring at one another, trying to sort out what Kevin and Castiel had dumped upon them. Sam was the first to recover, straightening in his chair. "So, what, a little bit of his Grace was bound to Dean and now he's stuck? Like the angel equivalent of an angry spirit?" He was grasping at straws, trying to understand what had happened.

            "I guess?" Kevin said, shrugging. "Don't look at me, I'm just a messenger."

            "Technically you are a prophet," Castiel corrected. Kevin rolled his eyes and Sam coughed to hide his laugh. Castiel narrowed his eyes at them.

            "Look," Dean said, drawing all their attention to him and the pages of scribbles over which he was spreading his hands. "So, I've got a bit of Cas' Grace mixed in somewhere. Is it a problem?"

            "I said I don't know," Kevin replied defensively. "I didn't read extensively in those sections, but that's my best guess from what I _did_ read. You brought my tablets, right?"

            "They're in the car," Sam told him, already getting to his feet to go fetch them.

            "Okay. So, I'll see what I can find, and save everyone's asses. Again," he said, rolling his gaze to Dean as Sam disappeared from the kitchen. "Who needs sleep, I was done catching up on the past two years anyway."

            "This can wait," Dean told Kevin seriously, because the kid was right. They'd been on the move, on high alert, for almost two years while they sorted the trials to close the gates. The past few days had been stressful. They had been on the road all day and Dean wasn't exactly keen to rush into finding out something went wrong after all their hard work. "It's late, we're all tired, and there will be time to bash our heads against the wall in the morning."

            Something in Dean's chest stuttered at the realization, that in all likelihood there _was_ time, for now. There were not demons breathing down their necks or angels on their tails. Whatever was going on with Castiel, it wasn't hurting any of them at the moment. For once a good night's rest wasn't going to kill anyone, and the feel of that weight lifting from his shoulders was staggering.

            Kevin didn't seem quite as convinced, but he could tell that Dean wasn't going to suffer protests at this point. "Whatever, man. You guys planning on staying here?"

            Dean very nearly said no, that they planned on getting a motel room by the highway exit, but before the words could leap from his mouth, he registered the subtle note of hope in Kevin's tone. The kid was alone, had been alone for over a year now, ever since Crowley had murdered his mother in front of him to prove a point. He'd taken over the house, carried on helping them to complete the trials with a new sort of vehemence, determined to avenge both his girlfriend and his mother. Now the dust had settled and for days Kevin had had no one in this house with him.

            "If it's okay," Dean replied, exhaustion ambushing him at the thought of doing anything else.

            Sam returned then, the tablets wrapped in soft cloth and packaged in a sturdy box that seemed almost small in his hands. He looked between Kevin and Dean before setting the box gently on the table. He didn't have to guess that they were staying; Dean had gotten that look about him. "Kevin, do you mind if I look through your notes tonight?"           

            "Knock yourself out," Kevin told him, waving a hand in dismissal. "You guys can crash where-ever there's space but if any of you wake me up before nine I will personally murder you with my bare hands and no one will ever find your body."

            Castiel frowned and Sam and Dean exchanged hidden grins at the threat. They said goodnight to Kevin as he left, and then Sam slid into the chair he had vacated earlier. Dean glanced over, but Sam had gotten a lot of sleep in the car and considering that circadian rhythm meant nothing at all to either of them, he decided that if Sam wanted to stay up and read chicken scratch all night, he was a big boy.

            "I'm going to bed," he announced, voice scratchy. It was past midnight and what little sleep he'd managed to grab while Sam drove his precious Baby had been light and not at all restful.

            Castiel rose when Dean did, and they exchanged a look without comment. Sam didn't even glance up as they left the kitchen together.


End file.
